


In Days of Grief and Soul-Borne Storm

by thefrogg



Category: Hurt Locker (2008), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), S.W.A.T. (2003), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: D/s, F/M, M/M, Multi, References to suicide attempts, Subspace, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 51,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undercover agents don't leave a lot of friends behind.  When Clint's face gets plastered all over the news and internet in the wake of the Chitauri invasion of Manhattan, Clint's left to deal with not only the aftermath of Loki's mind control, but the best, and the worst, of his past missions for SHIELD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim was the first to notice, the change in the quality of light making him glance up at the television above Chris' shoulder. The New York City skyline had replaced the game, its robin's egg and steel split by an eerie pillar of lightning, a swirling pool of darkness above raining nightmares down.

"This is breaking news from--" Marquees scrolled across the bottom of the screen, news anchor barely audible over the lunch crowd.

Jim stood and whistled shrilly. "Turn it up!" he yelled as confused silence swept the bar, some turning toward him, others turning to the closest television as each switched from sports programming to whatever horror was going on.

"-appears to be an alien invasion going on in Manhattan-"

"Dear Mary, mother of god."

Video cut in and out, some clips professional, mostly at a distance, others shaky, grainy, slightly blurred, obviously filmed with cell phones by unknown passersby: Iron Man's red-and-gold form darted between skyscrapers, a terrestrial meteorite leading a swarm of darker forms; a rain of fireballs flipped cars, dug craters into asphalt, showered the streets with debris; civilians ran for cover, screaming in terror; a single military aircraft careened drunkenly into a crash, flying from clip to clip to clip, its passengers finally disgorged once it came to a halt.

Voices from multiple stations overlap, weaving together in a tangle.

"New York Police are out en force with no sign of any effect whatsoever-"

"-Tony Stark's Iron Man appears to be-"

"-turning their attention to evacuating civilians-"

"-handful of supposed costumed heroes-"

"-appears to be none other than the legendary Captain America himself-"

"He's dead!" Jim's hand shook, shoulder straining as he reached toward the television screen. The sight of his one-time friend, years dead by his own hand, now aged, weathered, and using a _bow and arrows_ against an alien threat hit like a punch in the gut. "He's dead." The repetition was a hoarse whisper, ragged and shocky.

"Is that--" Chris looked away from the television for confirmation, but turned back to the television before Jim could answer.

"Brian Gamble."

"He was--"

"My partner." He sounded numb with disbelief.

"And you know he's dead because..." Deke prompted softly.

"I beat him to death with my bare hands."

"-apparently the creature known as the Hulk has joined the battle-"

The sound of a chair scraping the floor pulled her attention from the television screen, and she had to rush to throw a few bills on the table. "I guess we're going to New York City," she muttered, Deke smirking at her side as they following Jim out of the now quiet bar.

~~~

"Go to the basement! Do not go out on the street!" Ethan called down the stairs before turning to do one last sweep of the floor; the New York staff was down to stragglers, but there were still a handful of agents sweeping the building, making sure everyone got out, the few injured seen to. The lights were out, no hum of computers to cover the whine of alien vehicles buzzing down the street outside, the explosions down below or--

\--on the roof, making the building tremble, and he bent his knees, riding it out and hoping the building wasn't about to come down. A shower of flaming debris caught his eye out the window, and then a dark blur and a window exploded inward; his gun was in hand, safety off, before he even thought about it, then deliberately put the safety back on and shoved it in the back of his jeans. _Human, not alien,_ he berated himself.

 _Injured human,_ came the instant correction. He could see the guy arching his back in obvious pain, muscular arms, a...bow? before he got a good look at his face--

"Brandt?"

There was no answer, and Ethan couldn't be sure Brandt even heard him. "Brandt?" he tried again, getting closer, broken glass crunching beneath his shoes.

Brandt's eyes slit open to stare at him mid-roll. "Shit."

"Here." Ethan crouched down, holding both hands out.

Brandt's grip was strong, stronger than Ethan remembered as they pulled each other to their feet. "Shit that hurt," Brandt muttered, turning his arms over one at a time, frowning at the glittery shards embedded in his skin, the thin trails of blood beginning to ooze down his wrists. The way he held himself screamed of other injuries, stiff and lopsided; Brandt's quiver peeked accusingly over his shoulder, devoid of ammunition.

"Will," Ethan said, trying to get something besides cursing.

He got a one-fingered hold on; Brandt touched his ear with the other. "Hawkeye here, out of ammo and my perch got taken out, someone tell me this thing's still working."

Ethan grunted, leaving him to retrieve the bow only to have it snatched from him; Ethan put up his hands in surrender, backing away as Brandt ignored him, bloody hands instead running over the riser, down the arms. "I'm gonna find a first aid kit, start getting that glass out of your arms." That, at least, got a quick thumb's up and an absent-minded nod.

Removing the glass from Brandt's arms was more complicated than it seemed, even after Ethan found a fully-stocked-and-then-some first aid kit. He could tell when the news was good, bad, or just not coming by the way Brandt paled, flinched, fisted his hands around the bow (and who the hell uses a bow in an alien invasion?), and couldn't so much as ask questions he knew wouldn't be answered for the flashlight clenched in his teeth.

It wasn't until Brandt's whispered litany of _"Please please please let him--"_ that Ethan knew whatever was happening had come to a head, giving him the presence of mind to put the flashlight and gauze and tweezers aside for the moment when relief made Brandt go limp and all but fall off the desk. "Can you tell me what's going on? Alive, at least?" Brandt was leaning heavily against his chest, breathing hard through the adrenaline rush, quiver trapped between them pressing bruises into skin.

Brandt swallowed hard, tried to take his weight back. "Can't tell you other than, you know, alien invasion. Duh. Over now. My team survived, though. And I gotta get out there."

"Right. Okay. William Brandt actually your name?" Ethan tried to tamp down the irritation, the suspicion that it wasn't; he _knew_ duty.

"No, but I'll answer to it."

Ethan paused, trying not to ask just how much Brandt had lied about, trying not to think about it. "Fair enough. Scoot forward."

Brandt did, leaning forward with a little help - landing on his quiver had not been kind, apparently - and brought his arms back again, waiting patiently as Ethan tweezed the last few splinters out, then cleaned the blood with gauze pads and alcohol.

"I'm going to assume you don't have time to get these seen to - I'm putting butterfly bandages on the ones that should be stitched," Ethan said, ripping open the packages one after another, running his thumbs over each to smooth them, feel the increased muscle mass.

"You done feeling me up?" The humor was worn thin and tired, more sarcasm than amusement.

"Just giving you time to catch your breath."

Brandt snorted, and pulled himself forward off the far side of the desk. "You coming?"

"You really think I'm going to let you out of my sight after this?" There was no way Ethan was going to leave him alone, not with the way Brandt was listing to one side, moving more as if he wasn't sure what he needed to favor than trying to hide that he was favoring anything at all.

Still, he was on his feet. Ethan had to give credit for that.

"You got transport here?" Brandt asked, gingerly hooking his bow over his shoulder.

Ethan snorted. "Think you can hang onto me? I brought my bike."

Brandt just gave him a little nod and a look that said "Try me" as he headed for the elevator.

The arms around his waist were as much a comfort as necessity as Ethan steered them through the wreckage of downtown Manhattan. Occasionally, he took one hand off the bike to salute the police and firemen guiding civilians away from the carnage, knowing they were being allowed through because of his passenger.

The SHIELD uniforms waiting at Stark Tower were an expected annoyance.

"You'll need to come with us, sir," some nameless suit said, a ghost of apology in his voice, while a stern-looking young woman in full tactical gear traded Brandt's empty quiver for a full one.

"Yeah, right." Ethan's eyes met Brandt's, but he didn't move, other than to turn off the engine.

"You know where to find me." Brandt jerked his head toward the building behind him, then glanced over at the suit. "Sitwell, be nice, okay? He's my kind of crazy."

"You aren't crazy, Brandt," Ethan shot back wryly; he didn't call Brandt on the hysterical note in the answering laugh.

"Wonderful. Now there are _two_ of them," Sitwell muttered. "Sir? If you'll come with me, I'll try and make this as painless as possible. Is it safe to assume you won't be leaving through the ventilation shafts?"

Ethan blinked. "No, I prefer the door."

"Thank god for small favors."

 _'Maybe he_ is _crazy,'_ Ethan thought to himself, watching Brandt warily as he jogged through the door, bow in hand, arrow nocked but loose.

~~~

Gunshots. Sirens. Screaming.

Explosions.

Sanborn shook his head, mentally beating back the lingering memories of Afghanistan, too-bright sun, canyons of narrow streets, and tried to focus. The sounds were localized, too much for reality--

There. News reports, television--

And every patron, every employee of the gym was staring at the screens overhead, the screens in the corners, watching the talking heads on CNN change over to New York City under attack.

Sanborn found himself moving, feet shuffling across industrial-grade carpet, to get a better look: a sea of whirling blue-and-red lights, sidearms pointed up at the stream of alien air-sleds; huge green _Hulk_ dragging a flying robotic monster eel down to the ground, spinning it around in circles from his hold on its jaw; blur of red-and-gold metal slicing between buildings, twisting up and under and air-sleds tumbling behind; a woman in skin-tight black, an older man in dark purple holding a bow--

Shaking fingers flipped open a cellphone, blindly punched in a number. It rang twice, three times, and then a shocky "Damnit, Sanborn--"

"You're seeing him, too?"

"That fucker shot me!"

"That's what I thought."

"You going to New York?"

"And deal with his insanity? He's using a _bow_ on these things."

"Point."

~~~

Headquarters was a blur, the buzz of anger and disbelief in Jim's head drowning out the reactions to the news as he passed through, officers and support staff alike flinching away from the look in his eyes, the danger written in his posture, the steady beat of his footsteps. The anger balled his hand into a fist as he reaches his target, and he knocked on the open doorjamb. "Captain?"

"Yes, Street? What is it this time?"

The cool disdain and utter dismissal rankled, as did the way Fuller didn't even look up from his paperwork to address him. "I'm going to New York City. I'm going, or I quit."

"Good."

That got both of their attention, and Jim pivoted on his heel, seeing the Chief of Police behind him.

"There's a Stark Industries plane leaving LAX for La Guardia day after tomorrow, oh-six-hundred hours. Be on it. We'll be here when you get back."

The buzz cleared, and Jim nodded, offering a respectful "Sir, yes, sir!" before going back the way he'd come, not even bothering to watch Captain Fuller's imitation of a tomato.

~~~

It took a minor miracle for SHIELD to get a couple of transports to the shawarma joint even hours after the battle had ended; how they managed to bring Pepper and actually wait for the Avengers to leave of their own volition was a much larger one. But Pepper was there, eyes red-rimmed and focused, briefcase clutched tightly in both hands as Tony stumbled through the door, holding it open for the others.

"Tony?"

His head jerked up at the sound, and Bruce took over door-propping for the few seconds more it took Thor to drag himself through. The briefcase dropped almost unnoticed, sending up a small cloud of dust to swirl around Pepper's and Tony's legs as he swept her up in his arms.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured against his cheek, aware of and not caring that there were uniforms guiding Steve and Clint and Bruce to medical transports, accepting weapons and armor too heavy to be bothered with and suddenly unnecessary. "I missed your call, we were watching the news, and--"

"It's okay, it's okay, I know, shh," Tony mumbled back. "I got to see your face on the way out anyways. And hey." He dug up a smile, weary, but somehow real in a way that the public never got to see. "You're here. You're _here_ and I don't know how they got you from the airport and--"

"Tony."

"I know that tone of voice, what'd I do now?" Tony asked, a little alarmed and sounding put-upon. "I mean, besides the saving the world, because that _was_ a nuke I took through the portal and I didn't _mean_ to, but there was nobody else--"

"Tony, I know, I've been with you the whole time, remember, you're mine and I'm not letting you go although we're going to talk and no I'm not breaking up with you so don't even start with me, it's just--"

"Pepper."

Pepper reluctantly pulled back from the hug, makeup ruined by dust and sweat and grease and for once not caring as she stooped to pick up her briefcase. "I have some papers for you to sign. Come on, you're probably bruised and battered and as much as I'm not going to give you grief over saving New York--"

"The world--"

"Yes, yes, the world, I'd feel a lot better if you got a clean bill of no internal bleeding--"

Tony stole a kiss, as much to agree with her and reconnect as to just make the not-a-lecture stop. "Okay, okay. We're going back to Stark--no, Avengers Tower, we'll have to do something about that--and what papers do I need to sign?"

"Just some permission and access forms and transfer of funds--" Pepper nudged him toward the last of the vans, climbing in after him; she tucked herself awkwardly under his shoulder, unwilling to lose the comfort, and was silent until they reached SHIELD's New York City offices and the medical bays in the basement.

All of them - even Tony, exhausted as he was - were unprepared for the slow, standing ovation, the looks of respect, the small nod of _job well done_ from Fury as he met them at the doors and ushered them through.

"No samples, nothing but necessary medical treatment for injuries received and you'll all go home afterwards. You have my word on that." There was warmth and pride in his eye, and it made alarm bells go off quietly in the back of Tony's mind, but he shunted it to the side, to _deal with it tomorrow,_ nodding at the same time as he gave Fury a wary look.

The main area was set up for them, gurneys in easy sight of one another, sliding curtains in case more privacy was necessary.

"Come on, Tony." Pepper nudged him towards one of the beds, setting the briefcase on the floor to help him strip t-shirt off of stiff muscles. "I saw you out there, you know, all of you, I don't know how the news had half the footage--"

"Camera phones and youtube--" Tony hissed in mixed pleasure and pain as Pepper pressed a hot washcloth to the bruises rising across his ribcage, shaking his head at her immediate apologies. Ignoring the discomfort, he glanced up, around at the rest of the team. "Pepper."

"Tony?" She frowned at him.

"Go, I can manage this. Steve..." Tony could see him on the gurney, chest and abdomen bare and livid with bruising and half-healed burns. Alone, so alone, and Tony had-- "Pepper, go," he says again at her hesitation. He could barely hear the "Dear God" she muttered before dropping the washcloth in his lap, and marched her way over to gently touch Steve's unmarked shoulder.

Tony watched Steve straighten reflexively, letting Pepper distract him from the attention of the medics hovering around him, spreading ointment and aloe over his skin, run an IV line for fluids and antibiotics that probably wouldn't do anything given the serum, but SHIELD wasn't taking chances; as soon as Tony managed to get the rest of his suit off, there were medics with him, too, wiping his back with another hot washcloth, and another. It wasn't the hot shower he needed, they all needed, badly, and it wasn't Pepper's caring touch, but it was better than nothing. Ribs were declared cracked, not broken beneath the bruising, and taped, and an IV for his own round of fluids and antibiotics and painkillers that barely dented the post-adrenaline numbness. The rest of the team was in similar shape, Bruce the only one given a clean bill of health because, seriously, _Hulk:_ Thor took stitches in his hip, a stab wound gift from Loki that hadn't healed all the way; Clint disappeared for x-rays, reappearing to have ribs strapped and arms stitched; Natasha too, her vault to one of the alien sleds straining her shoulders and spine, but not enough to do serious damage.

They were all ridiculously lucky, but Steve took most of Tony's attention, Steve and Pepper, and he couldn't decide which to be jealous of and knew it was impossible almost before he pushed the thought away. It would have to be enough not to be enemies, not to be fighting each other as they had under the influence of Loki's staff.

Tony would take what he could get, and be grateful for it.

Steve tried to send Pepper back to him after while, Tony could understand the body language, Steve glancing in his direction as he picked idly at the tape holding the IV needle in his hand, Pepper shaking her head and pointing between the two of them, then crossing her arms over her breasts. Tony sighed to himself, hopping off the gurney and stooping painfully to pick up her briefcase, hooking the IV board over the stand and dragging it with him across the room.

"Happy now?" he asked, voice dull, but he was too tired to care. "Here." He held the briefcase out to Pepper, turning to lean against Steve's gurney, if only so he didn't have to look Captain America in the eye.

Pepper took the briefcase with a knowing look. "You need to sign some papers, Tony," she said, taking the opening. The briefcase opened with two loud pops, and she fished out a stack of official-looking forms and a pen, holding them out to Tony.

"What exactly am I signing, Miss Potts?" There was more life in Tony's voice now, all business, the familiar sickeningly comforting after this strange dance he'd been in with Steve the last few days. _(All your life,_ some tiny voice whispered, but he refused to acknowledge it.)

Pepper started pulling apart the forms, fanning them out according to some organizational system only she was aware of. "Permission for expected incoming support personnel and displaced New York City residents to set up camp in the unused levels of Stark Tower and various related expenditures - we have teams of police and medical and fire protection personnel coming in from various major cities around the country over the next few days, and those are just the ones using Stark Industries planes, we need someplace to put them--"

Tony couldn't bring himself to be surprised; Pepper was nothing if not the queen of efficiency, that was why he put her in charge of his company, after all. "Here, give me that, why didn't you have this for me yesterday?" He managed to accept the papers and put them on the bed before they spilled across the floor. "And it's Avengers Tower, not Stark Tower, please get that taken care of, will you?" he added, ignoring Steve's grunt of surprise, and the way the half-relaxed supersoldier went rigid next to him.

"Because we weren't being attacked by the Chitauri until this afternoon, and of course, sir."

"Yes, well, it should automatically be assumed that any time aliens decide to trash New York City that Avengers Tower can and will be used as a staging ground for recovery efforts." He struggled a little between the board taped to his wrist and the way his hands were trembling, but he managed to sign in the places indicated, and put the cap back on the pen with his teeth. "Here. Will that be all?"

"Yes, Mr. Stark," she answered, her normal tone of brisk competence subdued as she gathered the papers and put them back in her briefcase. "Thank you." Business finished, she pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We taking everyone home? The penthouse is a wreck, but the rest of the apartment's still usable." Pepper arched an eyebrow at him knowingly.

"I suppose we should ask. Hey, Avengers!" Tony followed up with a sharp whistle that had heads turning in his direction. "Avengers Tower has guest rooms and a stocked kitchen, not to mention bar, and you're all coming home with me and Pepper, so finish up with whatever you're still having done and let's go home."

Steve snorted a rueful laugh, followed it up with a groan of unexpected pain. "That wasn't exactly _asking,_ Tony."

Tony shrugged, giving him an unrepentant grin. "What can I say, I'm used to getting what I want. Besides, do you really want to go back to whatever tiny excuse for an apartment SHIELD's stuck you in?"

Steve didn't have anything to say to that, and Tony accepted the quiet thanks and more-gentle-than-usual jibes from the others with a grace that would have been entirely out of character if he weren't half-dead with fatigue and hadn't just saved the world with the people offering them.

~~~

Aged scotch burned warm and smoky down Ethan's throat as he waited; the debrief had been long and tedious, but that wasn't unexpected. At least they'd let him into Stark Tower to wait for Clint. And wasn't that a shock - the agent he'd first met as an _analyst_ was in actuality the world's best sniper.

The elevator hummed to a halt, doors sliding open quietly. Tony froze mid-step at the sight of him.

"Don't mind me," Ethan said, raising his glass in toast. "Thanks for the drink."

"Ah." He seemed too exhausted to give much of an answer, just got out of the way and let everyone else off the elevator. "Seeing as I don't know you other than that you're not SHIELD, I suppose you're here to talk to--" and left it open-ended, questioning.

"Me," Clint finished wearily. "You guys go on, get some rest."

Ethan watched him run shaking hands through sweat-stiff hair, watched every one of the man's teammates look at him in askance, passing silent a "You sure? I'll stay if you want. I don't know this guy." before nodding and moving off down the hall.

All of them except the shorter of the two women, _Black Widow,_ who rested a hand on Clint's shoulder, then moved to pull a bottle of vodka from behind the bar and poured herself a more than healthy glass.

"I was hoping I could talk to him alone."

The look she gave him was plainly, "Over my dead body."

"Be grateful it's just Tasha and not the whole team."

Ethan glanced between them, back and forth, then nodded, resigned. It didn't matter if he was a threat or not; he knew the post-fucked-op mindset of _every stranger's a threat_ intimately. He wouldn't have let a stranger be alone with one of his team members after that kind of op, either. "So," he started. "You want to explain to me how you retired after a year and now you're crashing through windows during alien invasions?"

"Just the one, Hunt."

"Ethan," he put in before Clint could continue.

Clint winced and looked away. "Ethan, then." He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. After the day he'd had, and Ethan would bet a great deal he didn't know the half of it, it probably made migraines seem pleasant. "I needed to get out of IMF and you didn't exactly give me another out. I already had a day job when I was given that op. It's not like SHIELD was going to let me jump ship." He snorted, rolling his eyes wildly and shaking his head. "Not like I'd _want_ to leave SHIELD." Laughter filled the next pause, sick and humorless. "Not like the IMF has room for an archer."

"They'd make room for an agent like you." Ethan held up his glass of scotch in a salute.

"Good thing I already have a day job then." More of that sick laughter. "At least I hit my target instead of my head."

A chuckle wormed its way out of Ethan's throat at that, the memories of Dubai pleasant in the face of today's clusterfuck of a success story. And he wasn't even involved. "You cut up your arms. I think I healed faster from the bump on the head than you will from that. And if I'm not missing my guess, cracked ribs. At least bruised."

"Good thing my armor actually supports my ribs then, isn't it?" Clint shot back, running one hand down the purple tunic. The quiver was gone, as was the bow, taken for repair and cleaning maybe, but the purple sleeveless tunic was still in evidence, as were the glove and wristguard.

"Mmm." There was nothing to be said to that, and without the distraction of conversation, Ethan's mind turned to their shared past, piecing together fragments of things that he hadn't realized didn't quite add up. "Croatia."

"What about it?" The words were tired, bored, almost covered by the sound of Tasha slamming down a tumbler of some unlabeled rich gold drink and sliding it across the bar. Clint caught it, hunching over the counter like he wanted to curl up and sleep, one knee tucked up on a stool.

"It was a lie, wasn't it, _Brandt?"_ It hadn't happened, he hadn't lost Julia, hadn't been responsible for her death because it hadn't happened, but to have Clint play him like that--

"I was undercover. I did my job. The only thing--" He had to stop to laugh, cover the dying sound with a drink before starting over. "The _only_ thing I didn't tell you was I already knew it was a cover-up."

"Spot the cover-up is one of our favorite games, Agent Hunt," Tasha put in, then slammed back the last of her vodka and poured another. She raised an eyebrow at Ethan's look of surprise. "I am Russian; I would not suggest attempting to outdrink me."

"How." Rage coiled in Ethan's gut, a slow-burning knot readying itself for...what, he didn't know.

"The guards were sedated. A real execution would have left them dead." He started to take another drink, paused with the glass halfway to his lips, and lowered it again with a shake of his head.

"So why the guilt? Why lie to me like that?" Ethan couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "To twist the knife? Was it so important to you to be the better agent?"

Clint actually looked at him, back over his shoulder, warning and bruised. "Because I trusted you."

"Because you trusted me? What the hell kind of answer is that, Brandt? Oh, excuse me, Barton? Or whatever you're calling yourself now," he added, tone razor sharp, and even the sight of Tasha putting the vodka aside, hoisting herself up on the bar wasn't enough to back him down.

"Tasha. Don't." Clint put a hand on her arm, fingers digging into muscle. "Because yeah, I knew it was a cover-up. But I could never be _sure_ unless you told me, and me trusting someone doesn't mean a damn thing unless they trust me back. Tasha."

Watching Clint stare down his partner made Ethan want to say "fuck this" and leave the rest for tomorrow, but he was the one who opened the can of worms. Clint probably wouldn't say a damn thing once he had some rest and his mental filter managed to reset. "I'm not going to hurt him."

"Don't lie to yourself, Agent Hunt," and her tone made Ethan wonder just how long ago the "I'm Russian" was. But she brushed her hand over Clint's shoulder, slid it up to scratch gently at the back of his neck, and retreated to the other side of the bar.

"Why?" Ethan finally asked, little more than a whisper. "You threw yourself out the window for me. Why wouldn't I trust you after that? Why the test?"

Clint was silent so long Ethan thought he wasn't going to answer at all. Then, quietly, he said, "Jane and Benji didn't know. They didn't know, and they were a lot closer to you than I was."

"And now?"

Clint shrugged, turning to look at him with dull eyes. "That's up to you, I guess. I'm the one that lied." He sighed. "Not like I wanted to, but this is the job I do. It's not like SHIELD gives me any other choice."

The last few swallows of scotch circled the glass as Ethan swirled it in his hand. "Tell me something."

"If I can."

Ethan couldn't blame him for being wary. "The saving the world thing. It wasn't--" He stopped, unable to find words that wouldn't make him sound like an idiot.

Clint smirked, amusement lighting his eyes for the first time since he'd crashed through the window at IMF. "It's the day job. It has been for a long time."

That small spark of humor drained the tension in the room, let them talk of other things, inconsequential things. Tasha finished her vodka, the second glass, and put the bottle back in the freezer. "Since you boys aren't going to kill each other, I'm going to go check in with medical," she said as she rinsed the glass out and put it on the drying rack.

Clint's glass slid through numb fingers, hitting the bar hard enough for the alcohol to splash over the sides. "What happened."

Ethan carefully, quietly got to his feet, his own glass left balanced on leather couch cushions; he was all too aware of the sudden resurgence of tension, only this time it was Clint at risk of exploding, not himself, and he didn't know why.

"Tasha," Clint prompted when an answer wasn't forthcoming.

"Phil was injured in the battle." Ethan couldn't tell if she was just that cold, or she was trying to stay calm for Clint's sake. "Loki stabbed him in the back with that staff he--"

"Damnit!" Clint snarled; his snifter was snatched and hurled at the wall behind her.

To her credit, Tasha neither ducked nor turned to see the impact. "Clint. Lublmaya moy. Phil will be _fine."_

This time when she slid over the bar, it was because Clint had her by the arms and pulled. "Truth."

"He will be _fine,"_ she said again, expression oddly caring.

Ethan could see Clint's knuckles whiten, knew Tasha would have finger-shaped bruises, and maybe welts from blunt fingernails.

Clint just breathed. Then, he managed to choke out, "No sugar-coating."

"He flatlined twice. Punctured lung, torn pericardium." Tasha stopped as Clint's whine of pain nearly drowned her out, and brought both hands up to cup his hips in her hands, fingers threading through beltloops. "Fury has our healer working on him."

"He'll be fine," Clint repeated, voice devoid of the reassurance and certainty that hers had had.

"Yes."

"Swear?"

Insecurity was one of the last things Ethan had expected from Brandt, or Barton.

Tasha let go of Clint's hips only to work her arms up, framing his face with her hands. "I swear. He'll be in the infirmary for a week or so, but he will be fine, I swear." Thumbs swept over his eyebrows, cheekbones soothingly. "Do I _ever_ lie to you?"

 _Me trusting someone doesn't mean a damn thing unless they trust me back._ Ethan found himself frozen, unable to move, to risk interrupting, and so jealous it was downright painful that Clint did trust that way, let himself be stripped bare and vulnerable.

Clint had let go, red-and-white marks glaringly obvious in Tasha's skin, only to lean forward and wrap her in his arms with a wounded animal sound; she took his weight, easing them both to the floor and rocking him like a child.

There were more words, the kind Ethan knew would be meaningless comfort to the distraught, a polyglot tangle of English and Russian and German, other languages he couldn't identify over the sounds of choking sobs and fists pounding the floor in helpless frustration. His own hands clenched in sympathy, itching to do something, anything, and knowing that whatever he could offer would undoubtedly be rebuffed, their so-short (too short!) working relationship not strong enough to weather this particular storm.

Still, Clint felt safe enough to let go in his presence. Or maybe he was just too battered, too raw to do anything else.

It still hurt: that they'd spent a year watching each other's backs, pulling off stunt after death defying stunt, and he didn't even know who this Phil was, didn't know who the real Clint Barton was after all this, except for the superficial things and the bits and pieces he could extrapolate from William Brandt.

There was a pause in the flow of words, a cessation of the hiccuping, soul-rending sobs, and then Tasha murmured something in Russian, a dialect Ethan couldn't quite understand, something from a border he hadn't been to, and Clint nodded wearily, arms loosening, flopping gracelessly on the slate floor. "I'm going to go keep Phil company. You need to rest, _milyi."_

The look Clint gave her was heartbreaking, all naked pain and shiny-striped cheeks. "Call me if--"

"I won't let anyone else."

 _tell you if the worst--_ and Ethan couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence, and had to wonder just who this Phil person was again, to garner this kind of reaction.

But Clint only nodded as Tasha rolled to her feet, her hand gentle on his shoulder.

"Who's Phil?" Ethan asked, finally finding his voice, and regretted it as Clint flinched and angled his head away so he couldn't see his face.

Tasha faced him squarely, stepping close, closer, until he could smell the sweat and ozone and concrete dust on her, the blood and adrenaline she hadn't had the chance to wash off yet. "Phil's our handler." She leaned even closer, lips brushing his ear, and whispered, "He trusts you. I have to go - don't abuse the privilege."

Ethan could read the "Or you'll pay for it in blood" in her eyes when she pulled back, and then she was gone, leaving him alone with Brandt, with Clint, and he had no idea what to do.

"Clint?" He waited for an answer, and got a half-hearted grunt. "Phil's your handler?"

Clint's shoulders stiffen and his hands twitched, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. "He's my partner," he whispered finally, voice rough, hoarse with abuse.

 _But Tasha--_ Ethan managed to keep himself from saying anything; they'd acted like long-term partners, too in-tune with each other--Oh. _Oh._ "SHIELD doesn't have anti-frat regs?"

Clint snorted, finally looking up at him with an expression that plainly read _"You're an idiot."_ "Does the IMF? SHIELD isn't interested in messing with what works. As long as your relationship doesn't fuck up ops, they'll leave you alone." He shook his head again, wrapping his arms across his chest as if trying to comfort himself.

This, Ethan knew how to do, sitting down next to Clint and scooting closer, levering him upright enough to slide under Clint's shoulder. Clint didn't so much as protest, just let out a ragged sigh and lolled his head in the curve of Ethan's collarbone. "How long have you been together?" He wrapped his arms around Clint's torso, feeling hard muscle under the neoprene armor, and turned the phantom almost-hug into a real one, tightening his hold until Clint gave a small grunt of pain as his own arms overlapped and squeezed. _Jesus fuck, that bow makes you strong,_ he thought to himself, still waiting for an answer.

"Tenth anniversary was...two months ago?" There was confusion there, either an op so long days slipped by without notice issue, or...something Ethan didn't want to contemplate, and was almost positive was the truth. "Ten years," and he choked out a sob, drawing his knees up, folding himself in half.

Ethan curled himself around Clint, shifting his hold until the sounds of pain quieted, until he could pretend he could hold Clint together through sheer strength of arm, force of will, and Clint relaxed little by little, the cloth of Ethan's t-shirt damp beneath Clint's cheek.

"Blue."

The word was whispered, and it made Ethan flinch, just a little, thinking Clint had fallen asleep. "What is?" he asked, rubbing small circles over Clint's hip. _He trusts you, he's letting you touch him, forget about the rest--_ and he shoved things like _propriety_ and _you've seen him naked, you idiot, a little touch is nothing_ out of his head.

"It was all blue, everything, Fury made me leave my nest, I could have _shot_ him, I--" Clint cut himself off, swallowing hard, fingers curling against Ethan's forearms. "Got too close, Loki touched me with that staff of his, and all I could do was scream and everything was _blue."_

 _Knew it,_ Ethan thought to himself. "Mind control?"

"All my fault, killed...so many, people I knew, gave him an army, wrecked the 'carrier," and the words came out in a rush, as if Clint couldn't stop himself. "All my fault, he wouldn't have hurt Phil--"

"It wasn't you," Ethan murmured when Clint ground to a halt. "You said it yourself, all you could do was scream, right? It wasn't you who did any of it."

"I should have stayed in my nest."

And Ethan knew why Clint could talk to him, that Clint trusted him with this much, as much because he wasn't SHIELD as because he _trusted_ him; even more, that he trusted Ethan not to betray that. And no matter what had happened between them, the one-upmanship, the lies and testing one another, Ethan wouldn't rat him out to SHIELD. Had to help, to push as much as Clint would let him. "Were you given orders?" He could only hope Clint heard the "Not your call" in the question.

"Fury," Clint whispered, but Ethan already knew that, Clint had already said _Fury made me leave my nest_ and cost him the shot.

"See? It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah. Right." Clint's words were weak, sarcastic, and Ethan could feel his body jerk with the punctuating snort, but there was also an underlying sense of _something,_ an underlying kernel of truth, of maybe _belief._

 _I knew...but I could never be_ sure _until you told me._

_He trusts you. Don't abuse the privilege._

If this was what Ethan had, a fading ghost of the team leader-senior agent bond, he'd take it. Natasha, as an equal partner, and Phil, as handler-slash-lover, weren't going to get _not your fault_ through Clint's thick skull; Ethan had had enough trouble doing it himself. Better him than his current teammates.

~~~

"Doctor Banner?"

"Call me Bruce, please, JARVIS." Bruce slipped a scrap of paper between the pages of his book to mark his place and glanced up at the wall.

"Of course, sir. I believe Agent Hunt could use your assistance."

"Is--" He couldn't finish the question.

"It seems Agent Barton has fallen asleep."

"Ah, yes, thank you." If any of them were to simply pass out from exertion, it would be Clint. "I'll take care of it, JARVIS."

"Thank you, Bruce."

"You're welcome." Not for the first time, Bruce wondered how Tony had managed to program his AI with such...exquisite manners.

The scene that met him wasn't exactly unexpected, but he hadn't counted on Clint having passed out on the floor, Agent Hunt curled around him and holding on like he was trying to escape.

"Agent Hunt?"

Agent Hunt barely granted him an eye-flicker. "He's asleep." The words were all but inaudible.

Bruce sighed. "He's one of SHIELD's best agents. If he's not awake now, he's either comfortable enough in our presence to trust us with his back, or he's too exhausted to defend himself. JARVIS thought you'd like some help getting him to bed," he continued, ignoring the evidence of tears, the tight twist of fingers in Agent Hunt's t-shirt.

"Ethan," he muttered after a moment.

"Bruce, please," he returned the courtesy. "Want some help getting him to bed? You're both going to be stiff as hell in the morning if you stay there."

"Tell me something I don't know, I'm getting too old for this." Ethan shifted, trying to maintain his support of Clint's head and shoulders as he struggled to his knees.

"Here." Bruce bent and took Clint from him, propping him in a half-sitting position as Ethan stood up and stretched quickly.

The two of them managed to get Clint to an empty guest room halfway down the hall, glove, guard, and boots off, tunic carefully unfastened and peeled off sweat-shiny skin.

Clint didn't so much as twitch under the attention, disturbing enough to make Bruce ask Jarvis if his vitals were normal (at least for someone suffering severe exhaustion) and breathe a sigh of relief at the affirmative reply.

"Tomorrow's going to be hell," Bruce muttered under his breath.

"And today wasn't?" Ethan asked with a bland, wry humor.

"Different kind of hell. They'll blame him." Bruce jerked his head back towards Clint's sleeping form, ushering Ethan out the door and shutting it behind him.

Ethan shrugged. "Best thing we can do is make sure he doesn't blame himself."

Bruce just laughed and shook his head. "I don't know how you're going to manage that, because I know I won't."

"I worked with him for a year, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Better me than your team, I'm betting. He won't have to look at me every day."

"Aha! Here you are." Tony sounded half-gleeful, half-asleep as he limped down the hall from his own bedroom. "Hawkeye's been--"

"Clint's asleep, we just put him to bed."

"Awww, like a good mom and dad. Listen, listen. You--" And he pointed to Ethan, almost poking him square in the chest. "You're a friend of Clint's - don't argue, Natasha left you alone with him, I know, JARVIS told me, so I really don't care, if you weren't okay here you'd be a bloody smear on the floor. Where are you staying--wait, no, JARVIS, find out where he's staying and have his things packed up and brought here, settle the tab, you know. Pick a guest room, this one, that one, the one two doors down are all free, just. Stay. JARVIS, he doesn't leave the building. Good night." He took a step back and tried to turn, only to have Pepper stop him with a firm hand on his shoulder; she wound her free arm around his waist as he stumbled.

"Tony, stop tormenting the man." Pepper turned her attention to Ethan. "Don't mind him, he really does mean well. Hi, I'm Pepper, I think we kind of forgot to handle introductions earlier." Smiling, she held out a hand for Ethan to shake. "You really will have to excuse him, he's usually not this scatterbrained."

"I'm not scatterbrained at all--"

"Saving the city from a nuke does tend to buy a lot of excusing," Ethan said with a laugh, shaking Pepper's hand firmly.

"Yes, it does, Agent Hunt--"

"Ethan."

"Of course, and you--" She poked Tony in the side, getting an undignified squeak. "Shush."

"Bruce Banner, but you knew that already." He leaned enough to brush shoulders with Ethan. "If I'm not needed any more, I'm going to sleep. I expect I'll see you in the morning."

"I imagine so." Ethan smiled. "Especially since I didn't exactly hear anyone countermand Tony's orders."

Pepper just smiled and wished him a good night, then half-dragged Tony back to bed; Bruce watched Ethan disappear into the room across from Clint's before finding his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Sure enough, Ethan's gear was waiting for him when he woke up at too-damn-early o'clock. He sighed at the "Welcome to _Stark_ Avengers Tower" note pinned to the duffel, and grabbed it and the laptop case to dump in what was now 'his' room, took a shower, changed clothes, and followed JARVIS' prompted directions to the kitchen.

"Good coffee," Ethan murmured into his cup, eyeing the coffee-maker warily when it beeped contentedly at him. "Live in Stark Tower, and find out the kitchen appliances have been AI'd."

"Avengers Tower, Agent Hunt, and most of them are, though nowhere near as advanced as myself." JARVIS _meant_ to sound reassuring, Ethan was sure.

"First of all, is there some rule against people just calling me _Ethan?_ It's my name, damnit."

"I will take that into consideration, sir."

"All right, well, is there anything that would object to my making breakfast?" He was already neck-deep in the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and cheese, chicken breasts and ham, bacon and butter and fresh vegetables, piling his spoils on the counter next to him.

"I will be sure to...have words with anything that might object, Ethan,"

A quick survey of the cabinets and drawers told him where just about anything could be found, and a few baking potatoes and onions joined the rest of the ingredients. The chicken had been cooked, potatoes and one of the onions turning into hashbrowns, his own omelette (cheese, bacon, chopped tomato and mushroom) devoured and Ethan himself on his third cup of ridiculously expensive coffee courtesy of Stark's over-eager (and overly intelligent) coffee maker when Natasha appeared on one of the barstools across the counter, Steve shuffling in from down the hall. (JARVIS had been kind enough to give him names over breakfast.) Ethan poured Natasha a cup of coffee, sliding it over to her and offering milk and sugar, and did the same for Steve.

"Breakfast? Making omelettes." Ethan held up the pan.

"Cheddar, tomato, spinach if you have it?" Natasha asked, words half lost in her coffee cup.

"Yep. Steve?"

"Everything you can cram in there, please. Two, if you don't mind?" Steve slumped into a chair at the table, looking like he'd fall asleep before Ethan finished making his omelette.

Ethan managed to amuse himself for the next few hours feeding still-sleepy Avengers, chopping more spinach and tomato and mushroom and onion, dishing up more omelettes: spinach and egg white (Bruce); bell peppers, cheddar, and tomato (Pepper); cheddar, monterey jack, mozzarella and spinach (Tony on threat of being force fed); another pair of everything omelettes (Thor). "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Ethan?"

"Clint awake yet?"

"Only just, sir."

"Good." Ethan hummed under his breath as he worked, four eggs stuffed with cheddar and monterey jack, crumbled bacon, sausage, chopped onions and hash browns, the omelette slipped onto a plate, covered and staying warm in the oven while he stirred a saucepan of biscuit gravy.

"Biscuits?" Tony perked up visibly at the prospect.

"Just gravy today. If I'm still welcome--"

Tony snorted. "For breakfast like this feel free to move in."

Ethan flashed him a smile over his shoulder. "I'll make biscuits tomorrow. And..."

"And?" Bruce repeated into his tea, fingers of his free hand dancing along the edge of his empty plate, as if he were contemplating asking for seconds.

Ethan just pulled the plate out of the oven, leaving it on the stovetop to pour yet another cup of coffee and set it at an empty seat and drag the chair out from under the table. The sound hid Clint's appearance at the end of the hall, half slumped against the wall. "Not awake yet, are you?" Ethan asked, eyes soft with fond amusement.

Clint shook his head, water droplets flying from wet hair.

"Figures." Ethan shook his head, crossing the room to wrap one hand around the back of Clint's neck, guiding him step by shuffling step to the waiting chair and pressing down until his knees gave way. "Careful with the coffee, it's hot," Ethan said, shoving the chair back in with one foot before giving Clint a gentle smack on the back of the head and turning to retrieve his omelette.

"Ow." Clint reached up and rubbed the offended spot, starting to curl forward over the table as if to go back to sleep before straightening again with a pained hiss.

~~~

Natasha watched as Ethan gently bullied Clint into his seat, slid the omelette, now smothered in sausage gravy, on the table in front of him, and smacked him in the head _again._

"Breakfast. Eat."

Clint glared at Ethan, resembling nothing so much as a wet kitten. "Yeah, yeah, I'm _awake,_ mom." Still, he picked up his knife and fork and tucked into the food, small grunts of pleasure escaping him every now and again.

She almost - almost - objected to how Ethan was handling her partner, especially given how upset he'd been the night before and how fragile he would be feeling in the aftermath of Loki's mind control, but Clint didn't eat breakfast. Not unless someone made him. And it looked like Ethan could get him to _voluntarily._ The year Clint had spent undercover as William Brandt must have made a deeper impression than she'd thought.

Clint trusted Ethan enough to let Ethan take care of him. And their dynamic was different enough to be useful, at least in the next few weeks and months, while she and Phil tried to piece Clint back together.

Ethan hadn't let her down when she'd entrusted Clint to his care, either.

She'd have to think about this. And see if Phil could see the same things she could.

~~~

"So," Tony started, "plans for today? Not that you're not all welcome to just go back to bed, because hey, that'd be pretty high on my list, actually, but the city could probably use some help out there, and--"

"Go see Phil," Clint cut in, then stuffed the last of his omelette in his mouth, washing it down with the last of his coffee.

"Ah, yeah, Tasha, is his diet restricted?" Ethan turned to her, hands twisted in the dishtowel. "I was going to bake something, muffins maybe, since he's in the infirmary--"

Steve bolted upright. "What do you mean, he's in the infirmary, he's--"

The rest was made incomprehensible by the hand Natasha clamped over his mouth, and the kitchen descended into an explosively tense silence.

"Director Fury," Natasha started, cold and merciless, "is a lying liar who lies. He will say whatever he feels he needs to to get the job _done._ And you two were being insufferable _idiots_ who needed a swift kick in the ass."

"You're _agreeing_ with him?" There was an ache in Tony's chest, the familiar comforting vibration of his arc reactor suddenly an insistent buzz in his ears.

"No, I'm not. But revenge is a dish best served cold. And there's a city out there that still needs us. So get your head out of your ass and start figuring out where you're going to put Agent Coulson, because he's transferring here this afternoon." She turned and snatched Clint's empty mug, going to the coffee maker, which beeped obligingly at her and puffed out a cloud of steam as she poured. "As for you," she said, tone suddenly dangerously gentle, "drink your coffee. Phil's fine, I talked to him last night, and again this morning, and he's coming home this afternoon."

Tony couldn't see the bleak look that must have been on Clint's face, but the tremor in his shoulders, the way his fingers jerked as he wrapped both hands around the mug and obediently drank told that story.

"Clint?"

Tony glanced between Ethan and Clint, his anger slowly subsiding, tucked away somewhere behind his arc reactor to be retrieved at some future date, then at Bruce beside him, and Thor on the other side of the table, both silent and confused. He didn't know how Steve managed to hold his temper, maybe the same way he himself was, but it'd show _sometime,_ if only on a punching bag or three, later.

But this? This thing with Ethan, and Clint, and the not-a-ghost of Phil hanging between them all in this room?

~~~

"Clint. Answer me something." Ethan cursed himself silently.

"And what's that?" The words were slurred, muffled by the half-tilted mug.

"You remember, right? Everything?" This part, Ethan hated, seeing the tension coil itself in Clint's shoulders, knowing the violence the man was capable of and holding the match.

Clint only grunted in answer, but Ethan knew it was an affirmative, _everyone_ knew that much.

"Who's the next best marksman at SHIELD?" Ethan held up his hands, towel dangling from one thumb, as Clint flashed him an angry look. "Don't tell me if you don't want to, just run through the last few days with whoever that is in your place. What would have happened?" He could see the moment each of them realized what he was doing, Tony, and Tasha, and Steve and Bruce and Thor (Pepper having left for work with a kiss for Tony and another for Ethan's cheek, a thanks for breakfast). Clint didn't bother looking up from his mostly-empty-again mug as he turned the answer over in his mind.

Clint was going to run; he always did when he couldn't handle this, when he couldn't stand to absolve himself of blame. Ethan knew the signs, the changes in Brandt's - Clint's, now - breathing pattern, the shift in posture, the fist at the back of his neck, and--

\--There it was, the chair scraping its way across the floor, tilting to crash to its side as Clint shoved himself away from the table and to his feet, and Ethan caught him with an arm across the chest, stopping him cold and trapping him against his own body. "Stop it, _Brandt,"_ he whispered, putting as much harsh bite into it as he can manage, the edge of a finely honed rage he should have been aiming elsewhere, but needed here, now

Clint hesitated, torn between the ghost of William Brandt and his own shattered reality, and Ethan had him pinned against the wall, breathing hard before he could react to either.

"Tell me, Clint, what would have happened?" The question was a whisper in Clint's ear, a warning, and Ethan didn't know who else could hear, and couldn't afford to care. "You didn't shoot to kill, did you? Fury's alive, the helicarrier didn't crash, _Phil's not dead,_ and it's all because Loki chose someone who could fight back without even _thinking about it."_ Clint shoved against him, half-hearted and weak; Ethan just pulled back enough to stare him in the eye a moment before continuing. He hadn't broken, not yet. "Someone _else_ would have taken headshots instead of letting people wearing _kevlar_ play dead. Someone _else_ would have taken out more than just the one engine on the helicarrier. Someone _else_ would have meant that Iron Man wouldn't have known about the nuke, that Phil wouldn't have gotten medical help in time, that the people who approved firing a nuclear missile at the _island of Manhattan_ were left in charge of SHIELD with an ongoing alien invasion and no one left strong enough to fight them off.

"Really, it's all your fault that Phil's _hurt?_ I don't fucking _think_ so, _Brandt,_ I'd say it's all your fault we're still _standing_ here. You gave Loki what he wanted and made sure we could recover from it, you made sure you were in a position to not only let your teammates free you but you could be of use, and don't even try and tell me you didn't do any good out there against those things." Natasha's hand on Ethan's back was a _"thank you"_ and a _"kitchen's clear"_ and a warning all at once; he'd heard the soft footsteps, chairs being pushed out of place, the rest of Clint's team scattering, Natasha following and leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen.

Ethan knew Natasha'd made her own footsteps audible on purpose, knew Clint was aware enough to know what it meant as he sagged, back sliding down the wall and dragging Ethan with him. He just took the extra weight, pulling Clint off the wall and onto his own shoulder, ignoring the twinge in his knee and the blunt nails digging into his sides as Clint's breathing shallowed to a thin whine in his ear. "It's okay, it's just us now, they're gone. And it wasn't your fault. I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it, as many times as it takes you to believe it. Not your fault, not your fault at all. Any of it." Clint shuddered against him, hiding his face, but it didn't matter, not if Clint was listening. Ethan ran one hand up Clint's spine, burying his fingers in short, damp hair, scratching softly at bristly scalp, and waited for the tremors to subside, Clint's breathing to normalize, waited for Clint to push him away.

It never happened, though the shaking stopped, leaving Clint limp, curled against Ethan's chest, legs tangled awkwardly. "Want to help me make some muffins?" Ethan asked finally, knowing Clint hadn't fallen asleep only by the flickering of eyelashes against his throat.

Clint drew back, seeming to shrink back into himself. "Sure, I guess." This was habit, not his, but Brandt's - hard op, emotional fallout, mindless baking. Measuring ingredients, washing dishes, following orders on instinct because that was how it worked between them, comforting and _normal,_ and if Clint needed anything right now, it was a little bit of normal.

Ethan could handle that.

~~~

Pain and the stress of his body being coaxed into weeks' worth of healing over the course of a few hours had sent Phil back to sleep; the smell of blueberry muffins and Clint, and the shaking as the latter carefully climbed into his hospital bed with him dragged him back to consciousness.

"Sorry, sir." The words were choked out against his throat, and Phil couldn't help but put forth the effort to scratch gently at the nape of Clint's neck, a reassurance his partner was sorely in need of.

"Clint." Even that little was rasped and painful as dry as Phil's mouth was, and Clint couldn't seem to bring himself to part from him, just tucked himself more tightly against Phil's side while Natasha filled a cup with water and held it for him, slipping the straw between his lips so he didn't have to open eyes crusted over with sand. "Still here, Clint," Phil managed after draining the cup, feeling the tears burn against bare skin, the tremors in the fingers clutching at his hospital gown. Natasha's hand was in his hair, stroking gently, but there was something off in her stance, in her rhythm, and he found out why a moment later, before he had a chance to ask.

"Should I come back later?" The voice wasn't _entirely_ unfamiliar, but it didn't belong to a SHIELD agent, and it wasn't one of the Avengers.

And if Phil wanted to identify the owner, he was going to have to open his eyes and find out just _why_ Clint was comfortable climbing into bed with him in front of someone he didn't know.

"Stay," he said, voice still rough, but not uncomfortable as he opened his eyes, blurry vision slowly coming into focus. The stranger in the room reminded him of a panther at its ease, worn jeans and t-shirt, battered leather coat, too-long hair and an expression of concern on a face that spoke of entirely too much time spent at friends' and colleagues' bedsides, waiting for them to wake up or pass on. "Agent Hunt."

"Ethan," Clint muttered into his skin at the same time as Natasha and Ethan both corrected him, and Ethan laughed ruefully.

"I can never seem to get people to use my given name," Ethan said.

"Ethan, then," Phil managed, and Natasha finished for him, "only while off-duty."

"I can handle that." But Ethan wasn't looking at him anymore, his attention on Clint, still shaking against him. "He dropped into the IMF building while I was clearing it during the invasion." He shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid, but Phil could read between the lines, the "I worked with him for a year" and the "I wasn't going to take no for an answer anymore." William Brandt wasn't a cover SHIELD was going to need anymore, anyways.

And if Clint was already willing to be this emotionally raw, Ethan's presence wasn't something Phil wanted to discourage.

"Thank you for taking care of him," Phil said, the words thick in his throat. "And for bringing him home."

"I don't leave my people behind." Ethan said it casually, almost flippantly, but the sincerity bled through. "Not even when they turn out to be undercover operatives from a different organization," he added wryly.

"Fuck you, Ethan, I did my job." There was no heat in Clint's words, though, just a fond amusement that made Phil look up at Natasha in shock.

Natasha just quirked her lips up at the corners and hid three taps of a finger against his scalp; Phil got it, got that 'leaving people behind' was a hell of a lot more comprehensive than just the physical for Ethan, probably close enough to Phil's own brand of operative management that even _Natasha_ was comfortable leaving Clint in Ethan's hands, comfortable letting him see her partner vulnerable. And this was three times Ethan had seen Clint broken since the invasion.

"Yeah," Ethan said finally. "Yeah, you did. Kind of pissed, I didn't even suspect, not after the Burj..."

Phil wanted to listen, wanted to _see_ them interact more, but Ethan could see the way Clint tried to make himself smaller and trailed off.

Natasha reached over to run her hand through Clint's hair before taking over with a "Come on, Hunt," and glared until he gave in and followed. The door was shut behind her, behind Ethan, before Phil could think of a reason to stop them.

"You like him." It was a gentle accusation, one that got Phil a half-hearted shrug and a muffled "lot like me" in answer.

"You do realize he's the IMF's liaison to SHIELD?"

_That_ got a reaction. Clint actually raised his head enough to look Phil in the eyes, careful to put all his weight on the arm not lying across Phil's chest. "How did that happen? Last I heard he refused it on the grounds that he was a field agent and liaisons, well, weren't!"

The chuckle that welled up then made him gasp afterwards, but Phil counted it worth the pain. "According to Sitwell, Ethan wanted answers he didn't have clearance for unless he accepted the position and nobody had told him he would get to 'play with the Avengers,'" and he made the air-quotes obvious, earning a brief laugh from Clint as he tucked himself back in his former position, snuggled up against his uninjured side.

"Tony wants him to move into the Tower." Clint made it sound grudging, but Phil could hear the wistfulness lurking underneath. And the fatigue making Clint relax by increments as Phil rubbed the back of his neck.

'We'll see what we can do,' Phil thought to himself, knowing Natasha was on the same page, even as he pressed his lips to Clint's forehead and let himself drift back to sleep.

~~~

"You do realize Tony was serious about his offer of living quarters, don't you?" Natasha asked once she got Ethan behind closed doors, a conference room useless in the hectic efforts to rebuild and repair turned to other uses.

Ethan just leaned against the wall indolently and raised an eyebrow at her. "And that has to do with Clint how?"

Natasha shrugged, suppressing the urge to smile; sparring with Ethan was going to be _fun._ "He likes you."

"Is this the Avengers' version of passing notes in high school?" The sarcasm in his voice was light, humorous. "Do you like me, yes or no?" He shook his head. "It always helps if your teammates like you. It makes things like jumping out of windows a lot safer."

"I do not think you understand," Natasha said, letting the warmth leech out of both tone and eyes. "I know of exactly three people Clint has allowed to see him cry. Until last night, I thought that number to be two."

"And?"

She snorted in disgust. "Clint doesn't trust easily, or quickly. But that trust, once given?" The words wouldn't come, and she shook her head. "Clint spoke well of you, when he came home. Well, and often."

"I wasn't planning on just _leaving."_

"This place was once his home; these people, SHIELD's people, were once his brothers-in-arms. Once as of a few days ago. They aren't now, because of Loki. They may never trust him again."

Ethan bristled, and Natasha allowed herself a small glow of pride at the reaction. "It wasn't his fault, I was the one pounding that through his thick skull earlier."

Natasha allowed him a small nod of acknowledgment. "Why did you not accept the liaison position?"

Pushing himself away from the wall, Ethan stalked halfway across the room, turning to lean on the back of a chair with both hands. "Wow, that's blunt." His voice, his gaze was distant with memories and distraction, opened his mouth to answer. And shut it again, words unspoken

"You accepted yesterday. Why?"

Ethan shot her an angry look. "You're seriously asking me that? Why do you think?"

Natasha shrugged. "Could be any number of reasons."

"So you're actually trying to interrogate me."

"When I'm interrogating people, I'm usually tied to a chair with a gun or three to my head. We're just having a friendly discussion." Natasha arched an eyebrow, tilting her head. "No one in our line of work trusts easy, Agent Hunt. My partner offered you his throat three times - that I know of - in the last twenty-four hours. I want to know why."

"Shouldn't you be asking him that question?" Ethan let out a little huff of laughter. "Why do you want to know? Why does it matter? You trusted me with him last night, and you trusted me enough to let me make you breakfast, and take care of him, and drag me here this morning, so why does it matter? He trusts me, I get that. You were there last night when we fought over it. I would think the fact that he does would make it easier for you to."

"You knew him as William Brandt, not Clint Barton. He was the straight man to your daredevil, but that's not who he is. So why did you accept the liaison position? So you can play with the Avengers?" And she let derision paint her voice ugly.

She could see the moment Ethan decided to stop playing the game, the moment his shoulders dropped just the tiniest bit, his knuckles pressed fingertips into the chair. "Because he wasn't Brandt yesterday, but he answered to that name. Because the reasons he gave for 'retiring' were bullshit and never sat right, but I couldn't argue with him. Because I could see he was torn up over _something_ yesterday when he crashed through that window and barely let me help pick the glass out of his arms, and I don't leave my people behind. Because Sitwell refused to tell me what I needed to know if I didn't, and I wasn't about to let him go."

"So you're just going to back out of it now?" The question wasn't a threat, it couldn't be - any harm that came to Ethan would just serve to hurt Clint, but she had to make the effort. And there were other things she could do.

Ethan's eyes were hard when he turned to look at her, cold with banked fury she'd seen in the mirror too many times to mistake. "I don't leave my people behind, Agent Romanoff. William Brandt may go by a different name, he may be your partner, he may work for a different organization altogether, but he's still my people, and I'm not. Leaving. Him. Behind."

"And?" She already knew the answer, already knew why this man had caught Clint's attention and held it, held _onto_ it so firmly.

"And because I still owe him for Croatia." For the guilt and insecurity that would follow Clint to his grave, for something that hadn't just not been his fault, but hadn't happened at all.

Her hand fisted itself in the neck of his t-shirt and dragged Ethan close; her off-hand came up to block the automatic counter-attack. "You're damned right you do," she hissed, shoving him away from her and leaving the room without another word.

~~~

Phil's transfer to Avengers Tower was painstakingly efficient, Clint twitchy but silent at his bedside, Natasha at the quinjet's controls. Phil himself was groggy, both from the late-morning nap and the healing session that followed, one that necessitated yet another IV of nutrients.

Steve was waiting for them on the roof, pressed against the wall as the plane landed, watching Phil as Clint pushed the gurney down the ramp. The expression on his face was torn between relief and anger. "Welcome home."

Phil sighed, too tired to deal with this. "It was my idea, Steve, don't blame Director Fury for--"

"I don't blame him for telling us you were dead," Steve interrupted, walking alongside as Clint steered the bed towards the elevator. "I blame him for not telling us it was a lie last night. I blame him for the unnecessary pain." Phil was relieved he didn't specify; Clint was uncomfortable enough, knuckles white on the bedrail. "He won't be doing it again, but I'm not willing to make civilians suffer for it. Neither is Tony." Steve took a deep breath, seemingly waiting for Phil to reply, and continued when Phil just twitched an eyebrow tiredly. "We'll handle it. Come on, we set up a room for you..."

Steve's voice, gentler now, followed Phil into sleep, but he never heard the rest; he woke up hours later when Clint, tucked against his side and snuffling quietly into his neck (their normal sleeping position and comforting in a way that Phil wouldn't admit to under torture), tried to climb out of bed without disturbing him. "Going somewhere?"

Clint froze, shoulders tensing under his t-shirt. "I need--" He swallowed hard, refusing to meet Phil's gaze.

"It wasn't your fault," Phil said without prompting, watching the words hit home, watched the shudder rip through his partner. "It wasn't your fault, Clint."

"Sir..."

Retreating behind rank already. _'Ethan's staying at Avengers Tower until Clint stops running if he has to be hogtied and sat on,'_ Phil thought to himself, unable to chase, to pin or even get out of fucking _bed._ "Don't leave the Avengers' part of the Tower." He said it in the same tone as any other order, as if he were watching Clint on a screen and speaking through the comm.

"It's Avengers Tower, sir, it's all--"

"You are not mingling with the relief workers, or the refugees, or even going out for coffee, Barton." The effort hurt his throat, tightened the band of pain wrapping itself around his chest. "Go get something to eat. Muffins don't equal lunch." Not with the way Loki had been using him. The way Clint had been sleeping almost as much as Phil had been told him that much.

Clint turned to look at him, position awkward as he twisted himself around; Phil couldn't read the odd expression in his eyes before the archer nodded brusquely and left the room.

Phil covered his face with both hands and sighed, tipping his head back in the pillows. His eyes burned.

~~~

An hour later, Thor stood in the middle of an Asgardian transport glyph, Loki bound and waiting, the Tesseract transferred to its containment chamber. The other Avengers ranged in a loose circle around him, and Erik Selvig; Ethan was missing, though he'd volunteered, had wanted to come along for Clint's sake.

It was for Clint's sake he'd stayed behind.

"I need you to stay here. We're all--Phil's here. He can't defend himself yet, and--" He hadn't been able to finish, but Ethan had been too stunned, too willing to play bodyguard even though they knew it wouldn't be necessary.

Natasha watched it all, offering Steve a small nod as he rode off on his motorcycle, destination unknown, and another to Bruce and Tony as they headed to Tony's convertible; her own whispered words echoed in her ears, a "thank you for trusting him" bringing a small, if only slightly sincere smile to Clint's lips. It couldn't have reached his eyes, but there was a reason Clint was wearing sunglasses.

~~~

"Five more."

"Fuck you," Eldridge shot back tonelessly, sweat dripping close enough to an eye to make him shake his head. It was more habit than complaint; his leg wasn't hurting _that_ much. Yet.

"You're welcome." There was dry amusement in it, years of experience at putting up with bullshit and frustration borne of pain.

Eldridge huffed, indignant at the lack of response. Then, as much to get his mind off the not-quite-agony of his leg, "You know that guy on the news? The one with the bow?"

"The modern-day Robin Hood? Shoots the aliens, saves New York? That one? Three more." The trainer tapped Eldridge's knee.

"I know him. Knew him."

"Really." Now he looked interested, though with a nonchalance that spoke volumes.

"Yeah. Served with him. He's the one that shot me." Eldridge grunted through the last repetition and eased the weights back down, sliding his ankle from beneath the padded bar. "Crazy fucker."

"You know, given what you've told me, if he hadn't come after you, you'd probably have been executed on tape."

Eldridge froze, t-shirt pulled up over his nose as he glared over the neckline.

"He might have ended your military career, but he did save your life in the process."

The t-shirt snapped back into shape. "He was so crazy Sanborn wanted to kill him after what, a couple of weeks? We tried being his friend, we tried, and--" Remembered anger pulled his lips down at the corners, the rest into a thin white line. "It was his idea to go racing off into the city."

"And it was your job to keep the peace. You couldn't do anything else."

"He fucking _shot_ me."

"And you know a guy who fights alongside Tony _Stark._ If anyone's capable of fixing your leg so you can get off the damn cane, Stark can. Or knows someone who can. And if you can get over yourself enough to give _Robin Hood_ a call once the whole alien invasion thing has calmed down, he might be able to _help."_ It wasn't exactly anger, more disappointment, but somehow that hit harder. "Anyways, you're done for today. Get some rest, put some ice on it. Think about what I said."

~~~

According to JARVIS, Natasha was usually the first to wake of those left in the Tower; her continued absence in the kitchen worried Ethan enough to make him cover warm biscuits with a towel and go searching, wandering down to the infirmary level. If nothing else, he could find out what Clint and Phil wanted.

Ethan found the main examination area, equipped with its medical machinery and lit up by wrap-around windows on two sides, silent and eerily still. More light spilled through Phil's open doorway, leaving the rest of the hallway dim and half-shadowed. A soft chuckle caught his ear, unintelligible words following _(Russian,_ his subconscience whispered, but couldn't identify anything more), and he stepped closer as the sounds faded to a soft groan, stopping in the doorway and freezing, a _"Good morning"_ dying in his throat unspoken.

Clint sat in the swivel chair, legs half-spread. Natasha knelt astride his lap, mouth locked on his, one of his hands splayed across her hip, the other fisted in her hair; her own were clutching at his shoulders, kneading hard muscle through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

"What the _hell,_ Brandt?" Ethan hissed. "What are you _doing?!"_

Natasha was already on the floor; Ethan's tailbone smarted in sympathy at the knee-jerk reaction and the rough landing, but he couldn't help but smirk inwardly at the fact that he'd snuck up on them.

Clint, on the other hand, had shot to the opposite corner, knives in hand, eyes all pupil.

"They _were,"_ Phil started, sounding half asleep, and amused as he gently stressed the past tense, "putting on a show for me."

"Wait, what?" Ethan worked his jaw, but couldn't manage anything more.

Natasha leaned back and did a neat kip-up. "The term you're looking for, Agent Hunt, is _threesome,"_ she said, glaring balefully for a moment before turning to Clint, cupping his jaw in one hand and kissing him again, and again, until Clint's shocked eyes drifted shut and his hands fell from their defensive position. Natasha didn't stop kissing him, just ran calm hands down his forearms and took the blades from him.

"Mmm," Phil almost purred, watching. "Gorgeous, aren't they?"

Uncomfortable suddenly, and not just because of his obvious mistake, Ethan desperately wanted to leave, wanted to start this over and just _stay in the kitchen_ this time. "You've been on the good drugs, haven't you?"

Keeping one hand curled possessively around the back of Clint's neck, Natasha pulled away enough to answer with a curt "Yes."

"I, uh." Ethan swallowed. "I'm sorry?" he offered.

Phil giggled - _giggled_ \- Natasha adding her own response with a soft growl. "Clint, it's okay," Ethan heard, and a murmur of garbled Russian he couldn't - tried not to - decipher, and Clint's anxiety was another presence in the room, fingertips digging into opposite arms, gaze flitting anywhere but at him, at Phil, color alternating high on cheekbones and a bloodless white beneath the gold of his skin. "Okay, okay," he heard, and more Russian, and then Clint was twisting his lips in frustration and embarrassment and looking up at the ceiling panels and--

_"Is it safe to assume you won't be leaving through the ventilation shafts?"_

_'Fucking hell,'_ Ethan thought, _'Sitwell had been_ serious.' Clint was moving then, shoulders hunched, refusing to meet his eyes, and Ethan would have blocked the door, forced a confrontation, downright _apologized,_ but Natasha was staring again, and he shifted to one side, chest tight, watching as Clint vanished.

"We need to talk," Natasha started, cold and implacable once the elevator dinged its arrival. "JARVIS, no access to this level please."

"Emergency overrides--"

"Are acceptable," she cut him off. "Clint wasn't cheating."

Ethan huffed softly, running one hand through his hair. "I kind of figured that out, thanks." Bitterness crept into his voice, unintentional but undeniable.

"Ethan." Natasha - wasn't staring, not now, not like she had been before, cold and angry. This time it was softer, more...something. "Does this bother you?"

That got a laugh. "Bother me? Brandt - _Clint,"_ Ethan corrected himself, Clint wasn't there, there was no need to keep him off-balance, "threw himself out the window and saved my life, and that was just the beginning. Why the hell would I _care?_ You make him _happy."_

Natasha snorted and gave him a vicious little smile.

"You've never seen him like that, have you?" And damn it, Phil _still_ sounded amused.

"Like what?" Ethan hated to retreat, it just wasn't in his nature, but he couldn't help but take two steps back so he could lean against the wall.

"Like someone you could love." Natasha answered, holding his gaze for a moment before turning to Phil, eyebrow twitching as she cocked her head to one side, bird-like.

Instinct made Ethan raise his hands, palms spread wide in surrender. "Hey, he's yours, he may have had to--I've seen him and even kissed him myself a time or two on ops, but that's _ops,_ I don't have any kind of claim on him. Just a friend," and now he was babbling and could this get any _worse?_

"Is that all you want from him though?" Phil asked, filling the awkward silence Ethan left behind.

His meaning hit like a sucker punch, driving the air from his lungs, the blood from his face, and Ethan had to close his eyes, grit his teeth. "I don't _poach,"_ he ground out. He couldn't deny that the idea was...attractive, he'd never limited himself to women, and there'd always been hints of something wild under the analyst veneer Brandt had worn, and now he knew why and that he was _taken_ he'd had to--

"Who said anything about poaching?" Natasha again, and they were tag-teaming him, wearing him down and Ethan wanted to run, barricade himself in his room - when did that happen, when had he started thinking of it as - because he couldn't _leave_ Clint this raw--

"Ethan." Phil looked serious even with the painkiller high. "You're good for him. He's--I wouldn't have expected him in this kind of shape for _months_ yet, and that's thanks to you--"

"So you're just--offering him to me." The idea made him sick, made his stomach crawl.

"No." And Natasha had him pinned, one hand at his throat and digging not-quite-too-tight, a promise of threat rather than the threat itself. "I told you. Clint _likes_ you. You're good for him. And he _hates_ deep cover, as good as he is at it, and he won't ask for a damn thing for himself for doing it."

"We try and give him what he wants, if we can, if we can figure it out," Phil finished. "You're what he wants."

"We're giving you _permission,_ Ethan. What you do with it is up to you." Thumb and fingers dig into Ethan's throat briefly, just shy of bruising. "So long as he doesn't get hurt." Ethan couldn't help taking a deep breath as Natasha let go, taking a step back from him.

If _that_ weren't a way out - "I don't see how that's possible. He's SHIELD, and an Avenger, and I'm IMF--"

"Not anymore. Not entirely," Phil said. "I'm going to be blunt here--"

"No, I'm going to be blunt," Natasha broke in, before adding, "I'm not high on painkillers. You became SHIELD as much as IMF when you took that liaison position. You became ours when you took it upon yourself to take care of Clint, to bring him home, to protect Phil for us when Thor took Loki and the Tesseract back to Asgard. The Avengers live here, Phil lives here, Tony was serious when he invited you to move in yesterday, and none of us know how to take no for an answer. If you just want Clint as a friend, that's fine, but don't think we'll stand in your way when he'll accept and return anything else you may want to give him. If you want more than that, don't deprive him, or yourself, of it. None of us will thank you for it."

_'You won't thank me if I--'_ Ethan thought, but left unsaid. "I don't play in other people's sandbox."

Natasha rolled her eyes and shook her head, muttering something a derogatory shade of Russian under her breath; Phil just smiled. "Don't think of it as playing in our sandbox. It's more we're dragging you in and handing you a pail and shovel."

_'More of the drugs talking,'_ Ethan thought, but Natasha wasn't arguing with him over it. "I thought the IMF was crazy," he managed, all sarcasm.

"IMF _is_ crazy." It was the first time Phil sounded angry, and Ethan decided right then he never wanted that anger pointed at him. "It has Ghost Protocol. Which _you_ don't need to worry about anymore."

Natasha reached out and touched Phil's arm. "SHIELD has your back now. The _Avengers_ have your back now, if we're needed," she said, and shook her head before changing the topic. Or maybe not. "Clint rarely leaves friends behind on undercover ops, it's the nature of his job. And every single cover he's ever had just got blown wide open," Natasha pointed out.

Really, it was something Ethan should have thought of, and Clint wasn't exactly in any kind of shape to deal with it. "I...need to think about this." It was the only answer he could give, because it was true, because everything made _sense_ now, because they were asking for his _help,_ and it was something he hadn't ever allowed himself to think possible, much less want.

And now he had permission, and he _still_ owed Clint for Croatia.

~~~

"Daddy!"

Sanborne smiled as wide as he could, knowing it was far short of what his son expected, thin and wan. "Hey, Alex." He swept the two-year-old up in his arms, lifting him skyward before propping him on one hip.

"JT?" His wife's voice was soft, gentle, obvious in her sensitivity to his state of mind, but not pressuring him for an explanation in front of their son.

"Just feeling very small right now, after...everything." He held Alex closer, reveling in the feel of tiny arms wound around his neck, the warm bundle of life tucked up against him.

"Daddy sad?"

"A little, but you make it better," Sanborn said, giving Alex a kiss on the crown of his head.

"Mmkay." The easy acceptance made Sanborn's heart clench, as did the smacking kiss Alex gave back, loud and spit-damp on his cheek.

The rest of the evening passed like that, quiet reassurance, silent _I love yous, You mean everything to me,_ a reading of _One Fish, Two Fish_ and a poignant _"Good night, Daddy!"_ before Sanborn sat down at the computer, his wife looking over his shoulder as he pulled up Youtube, entering "New York Robin Hood" in the search line. "Here. This is...this is that guy, you remember? William James, I worked with him for a year in Afghanistan."

"The crazy guy?"

"Yeah, him. He had, he had a higher IED count than anyone, I think he still holds the record, but he was an ass. Crazy ass motherfucker." The man slid across concrete onscreen, bow held horizontal to the ground as he shot at something in front of him.

"Well, he is fighting aliens with a bow and arrows."

Sanborn shook his head. "That's not...He can use a gun, he did in the desert, better shot that most of the snipers I've worked with. He's just--crazy."

The hand on his shoulder firmed, then held steady for a long moment. "You're worried about him."

"More..." Sanborn snorted, shaking his head. "Worried about _him_ being on the front lines against _aliens."_

"The bow and arrows were obviously effective. What I've seen of the police and National Guard trying to fight those things? Conventional weapons are useless against them." Her grip tightened again, then changed to an affectionate pat. "Or is that the problem? That he can actually do something against those things while you're just...here? Even if you'd been there you'd have the same weapons as the rest, the same useless weapons that left them helpless--and you know half the time you can't stand thinking about James because he was as effective as he was - maybe - crazy."

"So you're saying I've been a jealous bastard."

That got a warm huff of laughter and a loose, mocking strangling hug that let up before he was ready for her to let go. "I'm saying, husband mine, that you should give him a call and tell him congratulations for fighting off an alien hoard. And maybe find out that he had reasons for being a _'crazy ass motherfucker'_ with the best IED record in history. Tell him about Alex. Didn't you tell me he had a wife and kid?"

"Yeah, dunno how he'd convince a woman--"

"William Sanborn."

"Don't you use that tone on me, woman," Sanborn answered on a laugh, pulling her into his lap.

Whatever answer she might have given was cut off with a laughing squeal and a kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no mistaking where to go when Jim got to LAX: signs posted, cops checking vehicles as they came in and directing the expected personnel to designated parking areas and then to the 747 painted with Stark Industries' blue and black and white; gear stacked up in piles of rifle cases and first aid equipment, duffel bags and things he couldn't recognize, since no one knew exactly what New York had lost in the attack. People milled around, subdued and determined, their uniforms and badges reading PD, FD, cities all over southern California, more than a dozen hospitals, search and rescue teams, handlers spending the last few minutes with their canine partners before their transport cages were locked in the hold.

Dawn kissed the sky as he boarded, his name checked off the list by one of the flight staff, and he had to wonder at SI's efficiency at putting this together; the company had all but turned its entire North American fleet of jets over to transporting people and materials to New York City in less than twenty four hours, and there were more flying in from overseas. It made an impression, passengers filing in all the way to the back of the plane, stowing carry-ons, laptops, quietly introducing themselves to neighbors as the rows and rows in front of them filled quickly, and then the doors were shut and the fasten seatbelt light was on and they were taxiing down the runway.

The plane leveled off, the head stewardess introduced herself as Stacy, her teammates as Rachel and Brandon, and welcomed them all to the flight before running through the usual airplane safety spiel. Then, her eyes grew sober as she continues, "We at Stark Industries want to thank you for volunteering. There will be vehicles waiting at La Guardia Airport, ready to take you to Avengers Tower, the staging ground for New York City's out-of-town rescue operations. You'll be lodged at the Tower itself.

"While the Avengers have not been seen since just after the invasion ended two days ago, it is entirely possible, even likely, that one or more may choose to join the clean up efforts. I can assure you that all six of them are in good health, and that information comes from Miss Pepper Potts herself, from none other than Tony Stark." She had to pause as ragged cheers and applause broke out on the plane. "Thank you," she said with a smile, "I'll be sure to pass your well-wishes and support on.

"If the Avengers decide to join the relief efforts, please remember two things. One, keep in mind that several of them won't limit themselves to a human schedule. Please don't try and keep up with them - we don't want you hurting yourselves or worse trying to be superhuman. I assure you, there are lots of volunteers coming in to share the burden, including seven Stark Industries flights just this morning.

"Two, if the Avengers choose to join you in the field, they will be there to help out and _work._ They aren't there as celebrities, so please treat them with respect.

"We are getting up-to-date information straight from our offices at Avengers Tower, and I will be giving updates if and when information is made available. Right now, there are two buildings in a state of partial collapse, estimated casualties unknown.

"Finally, there will be plenty of Stark Industries personnel on the ground. Please feel free to flag one of us down if you need something - if we can't supply it, we'll find someone who can.

"Please enjoy your flight, and if there's anything I or my team can help you with, don't hesitate to ask."

Jim sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his seat, trying to get a little more sleep before jumping into the hell that would be New York City with Brian Gamble running around playing Robin Hood.

~~~

Clint never did show up for breakfast, but the gap where three biscuits had been said he'd eaten _something,_ at least.

Missing in action seemed to be the order of the day, actually; Tony and Bruce spent the time holed up in their labs, Natasha spent it either in the gym or with Phil, and Clint...was actually missing, only Phil's confidence at Clint's following orders assuring them that he hadn't left the Tower.

It didn't help that each of them wanted to be out with the volunteers, the rescue teams, and couldn't be due to bureaucratic idiocy.

Ethan could only be thankful for the space, and the chance to figure out what the hell it was he wanted.

~~~

Avengers Tower was a madhouse, gear and luggage being dropped off in the delivery bays, SI employees directing incoming volunteers to barracks to drop off personal belongings, other volunteers coming off-shift and bunking down - Jim was third wave, he knew, SI having brought in planeloads from the East Coast and Midwest before turning further west, though individuals and small groups had flown into nearby cities on their own and driven the rest of the way.

Still, no one had seen any of the Avengers; rumors had them holed up on the upper floors or scattered to the wind.

~~~

"Hey." Ethan had waited until Clint drew back from the refrigerator; it wouldn't help his cause to have Clint nursing a headache.

"Hmm? Oh." Clint looked up from his spoils, packages of lunch meat and cheese, honey mustard and mayonnaise. "Hey. Did you want a sandwich?" He tilted his head, unsure, still wary after their last meeting in Phil's room.

"Thanks, but no." Ethan held up his hands, palms up in mock surrender. "Was actually going to ask if you cared for some molasses cookies."

 _Molasses cookies._ The words got a tiny flinch, a tightening of knuckles on the counter edge, a hard swallow. Clint knew - Ethan knew - it was how they dealt with discomfort between them, at least on Ethan's part. For June, it'd been fresh baked bread, sweet with a dusting of nutmeg; for Benji, his mother's recipe for snickerdoodles, and Clint never had heard the story behind the acquisition. Ethan had never shared that. Neither had Benji's mother, but that was another story.

But for Clint it was molasses cookies...it was an offer of home and understanding and a shoulder to cry on, a request for an open ear, perhaps forgiveness, when first impressions and reactions went wrong, when duty overwrote emotional, oftentimes physical safety, when they finally had time to step back from the edge of the cliff of end game and take a deep breath, get everyone back on solid ground.

Clint didn't answer for a long time, long enough to get out a kaiser roll, and a plate, and build himself a sandwich that would have rivalled anything Thor might have eaten, had he been there. Then, one hand cupped protectively over the top, thumb rubbing crumbs off the crust, he asked, very quietly, "Did you really think I'd do that to him? To Phil?"

"I've seen a lot of people do very stupid hurtful things when they're in pain. I'm one of them," Ethan made sure to add before Clint could cut him off. "I didn't think you'd cheat on Phil, but--I was surprised. You fell asleep on the floor, curled up against me the night before last. Reaching for physical comfort--it's natural after a scare like you've had - like we all had. And given everything that's happened the last few days, the potential for stupidity was there."

Fingertips drummed on the counter as Clint thought that over. "You know," he started, hand going still. "If you were anyone else, _anyone,_ I'd call bullshit. I'd be going _"It's Tasha,"_ and _"she's going to kill you, so clearly I don't have to,"_ but." He stopped, turning away.

"She's very protective of you," and Ethan couldn't keep the grudging approval out of his voice. "They both are. You're lucky to have them."

Clint barked out a laugh. "Half the time I can't tell if they love me or if I've become some _obligation_ to them. Keep the archer happy, it's the only--" The words cut off on a pained grunt as Ethan pulled him around and slammed him into the refrigerator, one arm across his throat.

"Don't ever say that. Don't ever _think_ that," Ethan hissed. "You aren't an obligation. They wouldn't be putting your happiness over their own if they didn't love you."

Clint's eyes were wide with shocked disbelief, but he didn't struggle, just rested limp hands on Ethan's side, on his free arm. "They're not exactly what you expected of me, is it?" he choked out, and Ethan could hear the derision, the self-loathing. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Ethan snorted, and gave Clint a sharp-toothed grin. "There are IMF teams that can't be separated because they may as well be _married,_ Clint. I was surprised because I didn't know you and Phil were involved with Natasha, too."

"That's--that's kind of--" Clint shifted a little, dropping his gaze.

"You don't owe me any explanations, I don't need to know how all that works." Ethan let his arm drop, stepping back and shaking the blood back into his hand. "I told them this morning, and I'll tell you right now, the only thing I care about is that they make you happy. That is _it."_

"Really? That's all you talked about? Like I'm supposed to believe that."

"I told you." Ethan turned, opening cabinets to pull out ingredients, the mixer, measuring cups. "They're very protective of you. What the hell do you _think_ we talked about?" And that was a question Ethan couldn't afford to answer himself, not entirely.

"They gave you the shovel talk, didn't they?"

"Smart man." Ethan nudged Clint in the ribs with his elbow. "Eat. You can help me roll out cookies later."

Clint grunted his assent around a mouthful of sandwich, leaning against the counter carelessly, legs splayed for balance.

Thankful the tension level had more or less bottomed out, Ethan ignored him, mixing a huge batch of cookie dough from memory, pulling out a few spoons full before stowing the rest in the refrigerator to chill. "Here." He handed Clint a spoon, taking the teacup filled with sticky dough over to the table.

Grumbling softly, Clint brushed a few breadcrumbs from his shirt, then dragged another chair close enough that his thigh brushed Ethan's, close enough to lean on his shoulder as he snuck tastes of rich molasses and butter.

Ethan didn't bother moving when Clint dozed off against him, just carefully pried the spoon out of his clenched fingers and repositioned his arms so he wouldn't fall out of his chair.

~~~

It wasn't what quite Jim was used to on SWAT, but that didn't surprise him: patrolling the perimeter; guarding transport vehicles as they were loaded with alien technology, with alien corpses; hunting down the handful of idiots that wanted revenge and were stupid enough to take potshots at dead bodies.

The worst of it was keeping the street clear when it became obvious that an Iraq war veteran had completely lost track of when and where he was, and his team had had to track down someone who could talk him into an evac. 

They couldn't stop moving without storekeepers leaving their shops, offering bottled water, towels, asking if there was anything they could provide in support. Meal breaks went much the same, restaurant staff keeping an eye out for shift change, ushering the exhausted and hungry through their doors and seating them in areas separate from the general public.

Jim couldn't help but think it was all too like the aftermath of 9/11, fewer casualties, more damage. The same candle-light vigils, the same outpouring of shared grief and love and support, the walls of missing persons flyers.

The thought that 9/11 had perhaps been little more than a dry run for this, this uniting of humanity against an outside threat, made his stomach knot and churn, but he couldn't help thinking it.

~~~

"Hey," Ethan said softly from the door, trying not to startle Clint. _The Incredible Journey_ was playing on the television, only a few minutes into the movie. "Mind if I join you?" The last thing Clint needed - at least, according to the pattern Ethan had seen since he arrived at the Tower - was to be alone.

Clint tilted his head a little and scooted over, but didn't say anything.

It was enough of an invitation; Ethan sat down in a carefully calculated sprawl, maintaining a little space between them even as he stretched his arm out along the back of the couch. Close enough for Clint to assume physical contact would be welcome, if it was wanted, but not specifically intruding on his personal space.

Ethan watched the movie absentmindedly, paying closer attention to Clint and the way he fidgeted - normal behavior for Brandt, too, even though _his_ choice of movie was usually political thriller rather than Disney classics - and memories of JARVIS' alert that Clint was awake and not in his quarters at just after midnight. He didn't have enough data - yet - but Clint's seeming inability to fall asleep without company was becoming suspicious.

Tears burned in Ethan's eyes, his throat going tight as he was proven right not half an hour later, Clint's breathing going shuddery against the pain in his ribs as he dozed off. A gentle tug on his shoulder had him tipping sideways, lying across his lap with his head on the armrest. "JARVIS, pause the movie please. Rewind about five minutes," Ethan added, keeping his voice low but not enough to sound as if he were deliberately being sneaky.

JARVIS didn't answer, but the movie seemed to skip, then froze, casting the room in a steady blue-green light.

"Thanks." Ethan sighed, leaning over to pull Clint's legs up onto the couch one by one, then cupped one hand over the curve of his skull, fingers combing through the short hair over and over. "I think we'll have to do something about this sleeping habit of yours," he murmured to himself, then leaned down to brush his lips across Clint's forehead in a soft kiss.

Clint hummed contentedly, the sound long and drawn out and fading to dolphin clicks and static as he arched his back, eyes opening to slits. One arm moved to tug awkwardly at Ethan, the hum changing to irritation until he bent, folding himself down until Clint could nuzzle at his neck, his jaw, press lips to lips. Clint let go of Ethan's arm, sliding his hand upwards to cup the back of his neck.

 _'God.'_ Ethan shuddered, teasing Clint's mouth open on a soft moan, one hand on Clint's free arm, the other tracing the tendons in his neck, fingers curled at the nape. The kiss stretched out, lazy and languid, breaking periodically so they could breathe, letting Clint scrape blunt teeth over Ethan's jaw, rub his cheek against throat before returning, swallowing down small grunts of pleasure.

_"You've never seen him like that, have you? Like someone you could love."_

It had been a lie, Ethan realized, caught up in the chain of lush kisses; he'd always seen him as someone he could love, someone he _did_ love, he'd just never allowed himself to _see_ that.

Just as much as his own accusation that Phil and Natasha had been offering Clint to him. If anything it was the other way around, they'd been offering Ethan to Clint, friend and lover and caretaker, playmate and bodyguard all wrapped up in one person.

He drew back, just a little, tugging a little harder on the bristly hair between his fingers; he had to be sure, had to -- "Clint. God--Clint--"

The way Clint stiffened, his eyes open wide, hold going from _come here, not close enough, why aren't you kissing me anymore_ to flat out _panic_ told him that much, that Clint had either thought he'd been dreaming or mistaken him--

Clint rolled off of him, a whimper of pain escaping him at the jolt to his knee, cracked ribs. "Jesus _fuck,"_ he hissed.

"It's all right," Ethan started, calm and soothing, one hand resting tentatively on Clint's shoulder.

"It'snot," and the words ran together, Clint fighting his way to his feet, Ethan barely managing not to take a hit as Clint straightens, swaying, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down.

"It _is,"_ Ethan insisted, refusing to let go, to back down, unable to explain why.

"I have to tell, we have _rules,_ I can't--" Clint's eyes were wide, pupils blown as he backed away, going around the far side of the couch, slipping out the door and was swallowed up by the darkness outside.

"JARVIS?"

"I believe Clint is heading for Natasha's room."

"Are you aware--" Ethan stopped, unable to finish the question.

"Am I aware of your discussion with Agents Coulson and Romanov this morning? Yes, Ethan."

Ethan pulled at his hair briefly in frustration. "What rules?"

"That you will have to ask them."

"Wonderful." 

~~~

Natasha was on her feet, guns in hand at by the time the third frantic knock on her door bled into the fourth. Then the cobwebs of sleep faded into logic and her lip curled in disgust, guns sliding across the smooth cotton sheet behind her.

Clint's terrified face was not a surprise as she opened the door. "Tash--Tasha, I didn't, I didn't mean to, I--"

She cut him off with a raised hand, pressing two fingers to his lips, feeling them work against her skin as he tried and failed to keep going. "Get in here, you--" She turned, drawing him into her room by force of will, sensing him trail helplessly behind. "What is it, _milyi?"_

A shiver wracked Clint's body as he clutched at one shoulder with the opposite hand. Muscles bulged as he dug fingernails into skin through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "Ethan. I--I fell asleep, and he was _there_ and I thought he was Phil and--" He stopped the flow of words at her snort, raising lowered eyes as she shook her head.

Ethan stood in the still-open doorway, visible over Clint's shoulder, lips quirked; she could read the understanding in his eyes, knew he wouldn't jump in unless--

"You woke me up for this?"

She knew it was the wrong thing to say almost instantly; Clint's face went ghostly beneath his tan, the way he leaned back, balance shifting so he could run, _flee_ this perceived betrayal.

"Clint, _Clint,_ _lyubimy,_ you don't understand." She reached out, lightning fast, a hand around his wrist before he could break free. "Ethan is good for you," she said.

"I didn't _mean_ to--I thought--"

"Hush."

Clint's eyes were bright in the gloomy half-light, too bright.

"Ethan is good for you," she said again. "Phil and I, we talked. We talked to Ethan, we didn't know if you--he was all you talked about when you got back. This isn't a betrayal, _lyubimy,_ this is us giving you a gift. Us giving you what you need, what you deserve. He gives you things, he _is_ things we can't be for you."

"I--you just--how could you just--" Clint swallowed hard, shaking his head, denial and the pain of rejection obvious on his face.

"This isn't a one-night stand." Ethan's voice was rough, almost harsh.

Clint flinched, tried to turn, but couldn't, still caught in Natasha's grip. "I wasn't--"

"Weren't you?"

"I." Clint swallowed again, shaking.

Natasha nodded at Ethan's questioning look, and she watched him approach, watched as he wound strong arms around Clint from behind, pulling him into a reluctant embrace, brushing a kiss at the join of jaw and neck, nestled beneath his ear.

"You needed me to tell you about Julia because you needed me to trust you." The words were soft, almost hypnotic, and Natasha could feel Clint's muscles twitch spasmodically under her hand.

"I--yeah." Clint's breathing was fast, shallow, too close to his earlier panic for comfort.

"I needed to tell you because _this_ was never going to be a possibility if I didn't."

Natasha almost wasn't fast enough - wouldn't have _been_ fast enough - to keep her hold on Clint if Ethan hadn't already clamped down on him, hadn't lifted him off the floor entirely through the sheer expediency of arching backward. 

"We are very good at lying to ourselves, Clint. About who we are and what we need, and deny ourselves whatever doesn't fit with the job," Ethan murmured in Clint's ears, and Natasha had to strain to hear, turning against the feeble kicks aimed in her direction. "You're incredibly lucky to have two beautiful people who love you. Lucky, and you deserve every bit of it. They love you enough to let you let someone else into your heart, if you want it. "

"If you want him, Clint." Natasha dragged his attention back to her by tightening her hold, nails in flesh; there would be blue-black crescent moons in his forearms the next day, but it was trifling after what they'd done to each other in the past, and for less. "Only if you want him."

Ethan said nothing, let the silence spin between them, the shocked disbelief darkening Clint's eyes, and then they were sliding carefully to the floor as the fight left him shaking between them.

Natasha let go, sliding her hands up his chest, over Ethan's arms to frame Clint's face, press their foreheads together. "I love you. Phil loves you. We want you to be safe, and we want you to have everything good in this world, everything we can possibly give you, and Ethan makes you happy. Let him love you, alone or as part of us, that is up to you, and up to him," she added at Ethan's huffed breath of laughter. "Go, _lyubimy._ Go with my blessing, with Phil's blessing, and tell me of it in the morning."

"I--" Clint started to protest, then shook his head. "Really?"

Natasha let a small chortle bubble up from her throat. "Yes, really. Go. I need my beauty sleep." She kissed him on the forehead, brushed her thumbs across his cheeks and stood, offering her hands and pulling first Clint, then Ethan to their feet. "Have fun."

~~~

Clint was quiet on the trip back to the rec room, too quiet, docile beneath the tremors shivering through Ethan's guiding hand. A sideways glance let Ethan see closed eyes, an exhaustedly blank expression across his profile, and he could see that Clint was numb around the edges, too weary from being pulled in too many directions to think straight.

"Come on, I paused the movie," Ethan said, almost a whisper as Clint wobbled to a stop outside the door. _'Scene of the crime.'_ "It's just a movie. Or you can fall asleep on me again, I don't mind."

Nothing.

"Clint. Sit, couch, now." He hated to do it, hated to pull rank, to make it an order, but given how raw--

Clint moved, one arm wrapped across his torso as if holding his rib cage together, and took his previous position on the couch, in the middle, as if knowing he'd fall asleep eventually.

Ethan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before joining him. 

Clint's hands were twisted in his lap. "That's what you were talking about this morning, after?"

"Pretty much. They...they gave me permission, I guess. I spent the whole time trying to--"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Clint's voice didn't break, but Ethan could hear the hurt buried under the carefully neutral tone.

Ethan had to laugh at that, leaning back and spreading his arms across the back, down the arm of the couch, still taking pains not to touch, not to just pull Clint back against him, the way he wanted. "Because it was for _you,_ because you had to make the first move for any of it to mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to."

Still not looking, not meeting his eyes, Clint snorted. "What if--"

Ethan waited for him to finish the question; instead, Clint shook his head and asked JARVIS to play the movie again, and Ethan's heart sank, knowing what Clint was going to say, what Clint couldn't bring himself to say: _"What if I want it to mean something?"_

The movie played softly, quickly becoming background noise as Ethan concentrated on watching Clint from the corner of his eyes. There was something off, about his posture or the way Clint paid attention to the screen, and caught between the emotional turmoil of the day and differences between Clint and his memories of William Brandt, it took a while to figure out what.

Clint wasn't fidgeting, wasn't kneading the couch cushions or running fingers over the seams; instead, he'd controlled his breathing, gone sniper-still beneath the lightning tremors making his skin twitch--

Ethan reached out, cupping his hand over the nape of Clint's neck, thumb brushing the hollow at the join of neck and shoulder. The focus Clint had on the movie broke, shattered, his shoulders rounding despite the pain it had to have caused his ribs as his head bent down, tilted away to--

_"My partner offered you his throat three times in the last twenty-four hours."_

His grip tightened for a moment before Ethan could make himself let go, and Clint whimpered, the sound cutting off as Ethan shifted, twisting sideways on the couch so he could wrap his other hand around Clint's throat.

Clint froze, waiting, tension leeching from his shoulders, his spine the longer Ethan held on, three seconds, five.

"You've done this before," Ethan said, somehow unsurprised. And really, was it? The way Clint had always, _always_ followed him, reverted to blind obedience when overwhelmed or exhausted, the way he'd - perhaps wrongly, and Ethan shied away from that thought - trusted enough to put his own well-being in Ethan's hands.

It had never been about Ethan being team leader.

"Clint."

"I." Ethan felt Clint's Adam's apple bob against his fingers. "Yes."

"Phil? Natasha?" If Natasha had -- he'd been reading her wrong, or not enough, or taking her words at face value, and she hadn't _warned_ him --

"No, I don't--I didn't mix--" Another swallow, and Ethan could feel the struggle, would have loosened his grip except Clint wasn't fighting him, wasn't trying to pull away.

"Sex and submission." It was a guess, and Ethan could understand why -- if Clint normally went down this easily it'd be a risk on ops.

Clint tried to shake his head, forgetting about the grip on his throat, or maybe not, as the added pressure drew a low moan from him.

"Look at me." Ethan loosened his grip -- wanted to let go, his arm was starting to ache with fatigue. "Clint, look at me."

Clint fought it, didn't _want_ to, Ethan could see that, but did, slowly, pupils blown until the grey-blue was only a thin pale ring, desperate to escape reality, to stop having to--

"Do you want this?" Palm flexed gently, shifting his grip to something slightly less restrictive, something a little more comfortable for them both.

"Y-yes, I." Another strangled swallow, a high pitched whine, and Clint's hands fisted on his thighs.

Ethan wasn't going to ask if Clint wanted both sex and submission; the fact that he'd corrected himself, changing present tense to past, was enough, and the last thing, the very _last_ thing he wanted was for Clint to deny himself what he needed, what he wanted. They'd all - himself and Phil and Natasha - had been fighting against it since the battle ended days ago.

That didn't mean -- "Collar? Restraints?" _'Make it simple.'_ "Blindfold?" he added, remembering.

"Don't, don't _need_ them--" It was getting harder for Clint to talk, breath shallowing out, but it was enough. Need didn't equal want, and he could come up with something.

"Come on, then," and Ethan let go, pushed off the couch and turned, holding out a hand. "Safe word's red."

"I--yes, sir." Clint still wouldn't - didn't - look at him, but he reached up, brushing hand-to-hand and tangling their fingers together.

Ethan swallowed hard at the implied intimacy even as he tugged Clint off the couch, wrapping his free arm around Clint's waist. He wasn't quite prepared for Clint to fold himself in on him, tucking nose-to-shoulder and letting something that sounded suspiciously like a sob escape, but he went with it, bracing for the extra weight and sliding the hand not tangled with Clint's beneath his t-shirt. "It's okay, I've got you," he whispered between gentle kisses to Clint's temple. "Take your time." The words became meaningless comfort, a simple anchor for Clint to hold onto just as tight as he'd wrapped around Ethan himself, clinging, until the shaking faded. "Can you make it to my room? It's got a bed."

Clint barely whispers a "Yes, sir," only audible because JARVIS had stopped the movie, and peeled himself away, reluctance lying heavy in his muscles.

Ethan slid his hand out from under Clint's shirt, the heat from Clint's skin, the rough cotton of the bandages a ghostly reminder that was slow to fade, and guided Clint with gentle nudges down the hall. The door closed behind them with a small hiss of air. "Clint?" Ethan watched him re-orient, turning to face him even though he wouldn't meet his eyes. "Safe word?"

"I--It's red. I don't _want_ it," and it was plaintive, bewildered, an _I don't understand, I wouldn't do this if I didn't trust you_ that made Ethan wonder if whoever else Clint had submitted to had allowed him - given him the use of a safe word.

"It's there for you if you don't feel safe." The weak, but still poisonously offended look made Ethan laugh, and he stepped back, tugging his hand free of Clint's grasping fingers. "Strip."

Clint shuddered at the order, eyes rolling back and closed as he worked open the buttons, letting the sleeves slide down his arms until they caught at the wrist, cuffs still tightly buttoned.

"Easy, I got you," Ethan murmured, pressing close, cotton to bare chest and hands sliding down twitching, fighting arms behind Clint's back, feeling the surgical tape, the half-healed cuts and scrapes against his palms. "Don't fight it. It's okay." Clint leaned against him, sagging, what glimpses Ethan had had showing a rainbow of bruises on visible skin, the wide white band of taped ribs, and Ethan knew he'd have to be careful because Clint wasn't going to.

The tiny buttons came undone under Ethan's fingers, blind and nimble, and he threw the shirt to the side, freeing Clint's arms before stepping back. Clint wobbled a bit at the loss of support before catching himself with a swallowed whimper. "Thank you, sir," he mumbled, thumbs hooking beneath the elastic of his sweats and pulling out, pushing down, taking boxer-briefs with them to puddle at bare feet.

Ethan fisted his hands briefly, again, wiggling his fingers in an attempt to lose some tension, to firm his grip on control he hadn't thought to doubt, but Clint was naked, and broken, and so beautiful he just wanted to take, to overwrite the marks of violence with his own. "You're beautiful," fell from his lips, raspy and unplanned, but he couldn't regret it.

Clint made a small sound of denial, and opened his mouth only to find Ethan's fingers there, bridging the gap between his lips.

"Don't. You are _beautiful."_ Ethan barely recognized the startlement in Clint's eyes as he cupped Clint's jaw with one hand, cradled the back of his skull with the other, and swallowed down whatever protest Clint might have made, tongue sweeping in as if to conquer. Fingers twisted in Ethan's shirt, scrabbled for a hold as Clint surrendered, moaning softly, cock hot and hard where it pressed between them.

Ethan broke the kiss to let Clint breathe, place small bites along his jaw, down the side of his neck, whisper _"beautiful"_ and _"I've got you"_ and _"you can let go"_ until Clint was dazed, limp and pliant against him. "Will you let me take care of you tonight?"

"Yes, sir." Clint gulped in air, and added a ragged, "please," before hiding his face, breath hot against Ethan's collarbone.

Ethan tucked his chin over the top of Clint's head, breathing deeply and letting the sweet ache settle, arms loose at the small of Clint's back. "Will you let me give you pleasure?"

A shiver rippled through Clint's body to Ethan's. "Yes, sir," and Clint's cock twitched, leaving a damp spot on Ethan's t-shirt.

The first two were easy, Ethan knew, easy for Clint to accept - relatively speaking - but the third...he could only hope the third wouldn't -- "Will you let me love you?"

Clint almost fell into him, thin whine caught in his throat.

Holding Clint steady was effortless compared to the pain of of Clint's reaction, of knowing it had nothing to do with _him_ and everything to do with everything Ethan didn't know -- "I've got you, beautiful. Let me love you, let me show you--" he whispered, relentless and coaxing, words too fast for the calm he needed.

"Please, sir," and it came out as a broken sob, a plea.

"Good," Ethan breathed, relieved and pleased and proud, his hands running up and down the bare skin of Clint's back, below the bandages. "Good boy." The tremors faded, Clint taking more of his weight back with each repetition until Ethan nudged at him. "Go kneel on the bed, beautiful. Let me see you."

"Y-yes, sir," and he backed away, turning to slide hands over the sheet, crawling to the middle of the bed and kneeling, loosely curled fists on strong thighs, head ducked low.

"Gorgeous," Ethan murmured again, watching the shiver ripple blue-purple-green bruises, golden skin, committing the sight to memory before pulling his t-shirt over his head. Balling the shirt in his hand, he turned to glance around the room, wondering what he could use as a makeshift blindfold, and froze, seeing a polished black wooden box sitting on the dresser, a folded white card with his name written in an elegant hand atop.

 _Ethan,_ it read once he'd flipped it open, _thought you might have use for these. Clint may never choose to sub for Phil or myself, but that doesn't absolve us of the responsibility of being prepared in case he does. ~ Natasha_

Anger coiled low, and Ethan shoved it away, locked it down for a more appropriate time, until nothing was left except the pleasant warmth of arousal. He had more important things to deal with, and at least _this_ made finding something usable a moot point.

The latch opened silently, and he lifted the lid, unsurprised at the basic, if expensive and custom-made restraints - collar, wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, a pile of black and purple silk that was undoubtedly the blindfold he was looking for. _'Nice kit,'_ he thought absently, quickly shedding his own sweats and pulling the blindfold out, then condom and lube from the nightstand.

Clint shifted as Ethan eased onto the bed, tilting his head again _(baring his throat,_ his subconscious whispered). "Sir?"

"Right here, beautiful," and Ethan pressed his lips to a livid bruise still fading to blue-green on Clint's shoulder. "Good boy, waiting for me, letting me see you." Soft kisses trailed over marred skin, over shoulderblade and the dip of spine. Hands spread the blindfold out, scarves over quilted silk mask, and his whispered _"close your eyes, beautiful"_ got a trembling _"they are, sir"_ in answer. Ethan had to swallow down a groan before his fingers would work properly, sliding the mask into position and tying it in place.

~~~

Something gave way as the silk settled into place over Clint's eyes, scarf tying off at the back of his head, a second at the base of his skull. What was left of the world outside the hands on his body, the heat at his back, the voice murmuring comfort and pleasure in his ear receded, and things like _identity_ and _duty_ and _responsibility_ drifted away, taking with them their attendant guilt and shame and terror.

"Good," he heard, dry lips at his ear, "so good, like this, waiting for me," and he shivered as rough hands smoothed over his skin, sensation bright and muffled in turn, oddly dull in places. He gave himself over to it, soft kisses, a warm wet tongue tracing hot lines in random patterns, random places, feeling a cool draft against the rising heat of his skin as Ethan moved around him, guiding him to stretch out, pillow under his hips, a second lifting his head and shoulders off the bed before those oh-so-careful touches trailed down his thighs, behind his knees, teeth scraping the hard curve of calf muscle. His cock lay throbbing against the pillow, precome leaving a wet spot each time Ethan hit a sensitive spot (and far too many were), each time he murmured _'beautiful'_ like it was Clint's name, and not just a word that didn't apply to him, that _never_ applied to him - but that couldn't be true, not when Ethan was somehow mending the broken patches, filling in the chips and dents with hands and lips and tongue, urging him into rolling over, careful of--

Clint keened, arching high and digging his heels into the mattress as wet warmth closed over his cock, slick muscle swirling around the head as strong hands pinned his hips, long hair brushing his thighs and groin. His hands scrabbled for a hold, tangling in the sheets until he ripped one free and reached, and the warmth was gone, the "It's okay, beautiful, I have you," gusting hot over him instead.

"Please!" he managed, hissing through clenched teeth. He couldn't do anything else, pinned and blind and helpless, but this was _Ethan--_

Dry lips brushed the head of his dick, once, twice, and then vanished, Ethan sliding up his body to nuzzle at his cheek. "Not yet, beautiful, I'm not done with you yet--" and he bent, kissing another spot along clavicle, licking under the bone.

"Please, sir..." Clint whimpered, but it was more reflex than plea, and subsided, feeling heavy and restless. The careful touches, brushes of skin on skin, painfully gentle kisses still seemed random, aimless, interspersed now with tiny, unpredictable licks of his cock, keeping him on edge, soft moans spilling from his lips.

"Don't come, not until I tell you you can." It was all the warning he got before Ethan swallowed him down, hot and slick wrapped around his cock, and he wanted, oh, he _wanted--_

That pleasure was gone again, replaced by a hand around the base, squeezing tight, too tight, until the urgency backed down just a little, just enough to leave him panting.

"So good, so gorgeous for me," and there was no touch at all, then just a hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing his lips and he licked at it, tasting salt and musk. "Next time, I'm going to tie you to the bed." _'Next time?'_ Clint thought, dazed, but the raspy words went on before he could respond. "Make you take everything I want to give you, beautiful, leave you wrecked with pleasure--" And he turned his head, Ethan's voice coming from close enough, and managed, Ethan laughing into his mouth, letting him have the kiss before pulling him away by a hand knotted in his hair.

His hair was released, but an arm slid under his shoulders, across his back, before he could react, a hip easing under his as his body lifted up, turning, and then a whispered, "Come on, roll over for me." The blindness didn't stop him, didn't keep him from trying to picture the motion, Ethan using his own body to turn Clint's, and, at least in his head, it was a surprisingly graceful move that left him on all fours, knees wide, Ethan's chin on his shoulder, bodyheat painting his back even without the press of weight, and he shivered at it, swallowing down a moan.

"Don't, beautiful, don't hold it back, let me hear you," Ethan whispered in his ear. Teeth pulled gently at the lobe before the slight pain vanished, taking the wall of heat with it as soft kisses trail down his spine.

"Please, sir, please..." But he didn't know what he was asking for, didn't know how to ask as Ethan nuzzled the small of his back, nipped the curve of his ass, one hand releasing its grip on his hips only to return moments later to run gentle fingers over his perineum, slick thumb circling his asshole, no pressure, just a tease.

"Hold still, beautiful, you'll get what you want," and he tried to obey, tried not to rock back into that maddening touch, to fight the need for penetration; his hands fisted in the sheets, toes curling as he kneaded the mattress for something to work against, small helpless sounds spilling from his throat.

Lips pressed to hipbone, sensation distant compared to that tiny almost-fuck, the _"That's it, just relax for me, beautiful"_ coming from far away as his focus narrowed to that singular touch, the gradual added pressure all but unnoticed by oversensitized nerves, more slick easing the way as thumb dipped playfully inside, flirting with deeper penetration before leaving again, and repeating until Clint was whimpering, shoulders dropped to press forehead to the mattress.

Touch vanished, replaced with thicker, deeper, more agile, and white-hot sparks of pleasure that made him flinch, made him whine and jerk against the hold on his cock, firm around the base, almost ticklish against the shaft, and there's another _"hold still, beautiful, just a little longer."_

More pressure, more stretch and burn, and Clint panted raggedly for breath, sucking air through clenched teeth until it all eased back into that throbbing want; it was gone before he could reach for it, try for more of those sparks of pleasure. "N-no, please, sir, please?" Tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, eyes burning behind slick cloth as more fingers brushed over his ass, a nudge of something hotter, broader before an arm wrapped around his chest.

"Don't come, beautiful, not yet." The grip on his cock tightened a little in reminder.

"Sir, _please."_ It came out on a sob, every muscle straining

"Not until I say you can. You can do it, beautiful, I know you can."

There was heat at his back, breath warming the half-numbed span below his shoulder blades, and then his world upended itself, Ethan's cock splitting him wide, stretching him hot and full and dancing lightning up his spine, ripping a scream from his throat as Ethan pulled him up on his knees, back-to-chest, grip changing from chest to throat in another imaginary collar once he bottomed out.

"Easy, beautiful, so good, I've got you." Clint moaned through the murmured words of praise and pleasure, deaf to the tremors in it as he latched onto Ethan's arms, trying to ride out the shock of sudden pleasure, desperately trying not to come even with the hold on his cock. "That's it, you're so good for me, so gorgeous, beautiful, almost there, just a little more." Ethan kept talking, kept hands steady on cock and throat until the shudders slowed to trembling, the death-grip on his forearms eased with Clint's breathing. "Easy, easy, see? It's all good, so good feeling you on me, beautiful." There was a wet kiss at the nape of his neck, a longer nuzzle. "Let go, beautiful, let go of my arms, come on," until Clint was whispering "Please, sir" under his breath, hands curled limply on the slope of muscled thighs.

"So good, beautiful." The hand at his throat disappeared, and he whined at the loss, swallowing hard and aching at the ease of it. "Here," the word was accompanied by a sharp nip, making him gasp, flinch, shifting the cock buried in him and sending another bolt of pleasure sparking in the darkness of his mind. "Easy, I've got you. Show me, beautiful, show me how you like it, what it feels like," and the hand he'd lost at his throat tugged gently at one of Clint's, weaving slick fingers together with dry before wrapping both their hands around his almost too-hard cock and drawing another sob of arousal.

"Sir? Can I--please, sir, I can't--" But his hand was already moving, dragging Ethan's with it as they both slid down the shaft, grip tightening as lube spread over too-sensitive skin.

"Go ahead, beautiful, show me," and there was a hand slipping down to cradle his balls, freeing the base of his cock, and it didn't matter that the familiar grip was wrong, too broad, calluses in the wrong places and pressure uneven. Wet warmth hit his stomach, his wrist and hand as he arched back, orgasm sweeping him under with a sharp cry, pressing him harder into Ethan's body.

"That's it, that's what I want, beautiful, come on," Ethan coaxed, voice raw in Clint's ear, talking him through the spasms, guiding Clint's hand around his cock when he faltered, up and down, twist at the top with thumb circling the head until the sounds of pleasure turned to the beginnings of discomfort. "So good, beautiful, so gorgeous," and Ethan sounded _broken_ over the roaring in Clint's ears, the fog of white-out ecstasy beginning to fade.

"Sir?" His own voice was blown, raspy and hoarse, and he licked dry lips with effort. "You didn't--"

"I got what I wanted, beautiful." The hands on him were gentle still, but shaking even through the damp cloth dragged across his skin.

"Please, no, just--fuck me, sir--feel so good in me--" He could feel the growl against his back, the flexing of taut muscles, and then Ethan was pushing him down, forearms flat on the mattress and ass in the air, and Clint answered Ethan's growl with a contented hum, clenching his muscles as Ethan shoved deep, deeper, rough hands digging into Clint's hips.

"Mine, like this, beautiful--" It was surprisingly possessive, and Clint wasn't expecting another aftershock; it tore his breath from him, cock jerking madly against the pillow, struggling to rise again, but unable to. Still, it satisfied something basic, something primal to be used this way, just a vessel of his lover's pleasure, and he lay docile, basking in the attention, wallowing in the pleasure that became edged in pain as nerves were rubbed too sensitive and made him shake in reaction until Ethan slammed home one last time and stopped on a snarl, pressing his forehead to Clint's shoulder in silent thanks before withdrawing entirely.

Clint whined a little at the loss, clenching his asscheeks together as if Ethan were still buried deep, as if he could keep him trapped; a lazy, careless hand ran down his spine, soothing, before pulling on one ankle, the other, back up to move pillows and shift Clint's arms out from beneath him, until he lay flat on his stomach, until he could scoot himself over and lay half-sprawled over Ethan's chest and whisper a shaky _"thank you"_ and pass out, brush of fingers against the small of his back following him into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The brush of silk on skin and the attempted removal of bodyweight woke Ethan, but he didn't make the mistake of instinctively wrapping himself around Clint, just blinked and rumbled a soft "Good morning" in the near-darkness.

Clint gave him a raspy grunt in response as he settled again, nuzzling at Ethan's shoulder sleepily; the scarves dragged across Ethan's arm as a reminder.

"You want this off?" Ethan reached up to tug at a scarf gently.

The room remained silent, Clint not _quite_ sniper-still, more paused in indecision before scrubbing his cheek noncommittally against the thin-skinned wing of Ethan's clavicle.

Ethan blinked up at the ceiling. This wasn't the Clint who'd been battered and bleeding, ragged at the edges and tearing apart from the inside out, wasn't the piecemeal amalgamation of every cover identity Ethan had known - Clint Barton playing William Brandt playing someone else - until all that was there was a fractured mirror with blank spaces where bits might have been. 

Clint hummed against him, purring quietly as Ethan absently ran one hand up and down his back.

No, this was a Clint he hadn't seen before, not entirely; glimpses, perhaps, during the battle, but nothing more, a Clint strong enough not to _need,_ willing to withdraw from a scene but content to remain and--

Had submitting actually helped that much? Was it _him_ or the trust involved or the fact that without his eyesight, Clint would have been incapable of--

Did it matter?

"Let me take off the blindfold, okay?"

Clint's humming shifted in acquiescence, and he turned his head, presenting the ties so Ethan could pick at them. They came loose with a couple firm tugs, and Ethan wrapped it around his hand before dropping the whole thing on the bedside table.

There was no way to miss the shivers, the way Clint clutched at him, his shoulder, his side, fingers twitching convulsively, and Ethan could almost _see_ defenses going back up, walls slamming back into place until it felt like he was in bed with William Brandt, and not Clint Barton underneath. Except - given everything, maybe that was the point. "Hey."

Clint still didn't answer, just slid to the edge of the bed and levered himself upright, slumped over with hands laced at the back of his neck.

Ethan followed, going up on his knees and wrapping both arms around Clint before he could jerk away. "Hey, it's just me here, okay?"

That got a snort of laughter and a tilt of head, Clint smirking at him from the corner of his eyes. "Good morning." His voice still sounded rough.

“It is, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t much of a question, and Ethan bent to press a small kiss to Clint’s shoulder.

Leaning back a little, not enough to irritate his ribs, Clint laid his arms over Ethan’s, brushing wrists with his thumbs. “Mmmhmm.” 

Content just to hold on, to feel Clint’s heartbeat and breathe in his scent, sweat and musk and sex, Ethan buried his nose in Clint's hair and savored the connection, thankful that this hadn't become some awful, awkward parting over the night before, poisoning memory with bitterness and anger. After a few minutes, though, Clint patted his wrists, back straightening as he prepared to push away from him, and Ethan let go before he could.

"I need to get out of here," Clint said, tone carefully neutral, moving to gather his clothes.

"Out of here?"

"Yeah, out there, the least I could do is, you know, _help,"_ and Ethan had to stop himself from automatically cutting him off, reinforcing the _not your fault_ from the day before; there was no _guilt_ there, just a nonchalance Ethan hadn't been prepared for, not yet. "They don't know I--" Clint stopped, shook his head, but didn't blame himself again.

"Clint?" Ethan had to see, had to--

Clint looked up at him, clothes in a heap in his arms, and raised an eyebrow at him; Ethan fought down the deja vu that swept over him at the very Brandt-ness of the expression.

It was enough though, enough to tell him that Clint's defenses were...not solid, but steady, unlikely to shatter without a direct hit, something only SHIELD itself and the rest of the Avengers - already sensitive to that issue - were capable of doing, at least deliberately, and Ethan trusted Clint's ability to get past an accidental hit. True healing would take time, but this...was more than Ethan could have hoped for. "Stay away from SHIELD. And eat something before you leave - want me to make you some breakfast? Not exactly shift change yet." The offer came naturally, rolling effortlessly off his tongue.

"Shift change." Clint snorted and shook his head, some inexplicable tension leeching from his shoulders at that. "Nah, thanks, I'll grab something out there."

Ethan nodded, knowing Clint - and every other relief worker out there - would be hard pressed with food and drink offers from the local stores. "Something before you leave, too."

"Sir, yes, sir." One arm flexed in an aborted salute, and Clint laughed - laughed! - at the image he made, dull flush visible even in the dim lighting.

Ethan had to return it with a lopsided grin, a flash of teeth, and then JARVIS was assuring Clint the hall was clear, and Clint was gone, door shutting across the hall.

~~~

"Well, _someone_ had a good night." Natasha let her dry amusement announce her presence, though she doubted it was an actual announcement; Ethan was good enough a spy to either sense her watching from the shadows or to suppress a reaction before it became visible, both of which were useful, as he was taking a pan of biscuits out of the oven.

"And a good morning to you, too." Ethan's smile was audible in his reply, over the ceramic-on-metal sounds. "Biscuits?"

"Yes, please." She accepted the cup of coffee offered her a few moments later, then the plate of biscuits and gravy; the dishes were handed over with uncharacteristic silence. "You're angry with me." Doctoring her coffee with flavored creamer kept her hands occupied.

"Clint hit subspace like a brick wall at a hundred twenty. I barely had to touch him. You want to tell me why you didn't warn me about that?"

She arched an eyebrow, taking a bite of biscuit - steaming, crumbly, hot with spices - before bothering to dignify it with an answer. "I did," she said around a swallow. "Not my fault you weren't listening."

"It wasn't _clear_ until it was too late for me to do anything about it," Ethan snarled. "I could have hurt him--"

"You didn't." The smug satisfaction in her voice carried her through another bite. "You were entirely too pleased with yourself for him to have gotten hurt. Or am I wrong?" She gave him a baleful look and popped another piece of crumbled biscuit in her mouth. "I trusted you to take care of him. To not hurt him. And I trust Clint to know what he needs, I trust his judgement in terms of who he turns to in order to _get_ what he needs, and I figured he'd submit to you given the opportunity. It's not like I haven't been running interference for you since you got here."

Ethan still looked troubled, uncomfortable in his skin as he stirred the gravy in its pot. "Would it have been so hard just to _tell_ me?"

"And break Clint's trust?"

The pot skidded off the burner as Ethan flinched, hand tightening around the handle and jerking sideways.

"Phil and I, we gave you permission to build your own relationship together, because you want it, and we've known _he's_ wanted it since he got back from IMF, but the boundaries the two of you set on that relationship are up to you. I can't dictate whether or not he decides to sub for you, or if you want to accept that. I wouldn't even if he were my sub." Natasha shrugged and took a sip of her coffee, half hiding behind the mug as she watched Ethan put the stove top back in order, wipe his hands on the dishtowel tucked into his belt. "Relax. Basking in your afterglow was a lot more fun than trying to convince you you didn't do anything wrong."

That got her a rough chuckle, a shake of Ethan's head. "Hey, it's not like I've ever done this before."

"The dominance, the polyamory, or the loving another man?"

"Wow, you _are_ blunt."

"Mmhmm." Natasha gave herself a moment to enjoy the fact that she made Ethan Hunt _blush._ "Now answer the question."

Ethan eyed her warily; Natasha couldn't blame him. "A little of all of the above."

"Ah."

"I am not explaining that to you."

"I didn't ask." She hummed briefly and shot him a smile. "Although it is amusing you seem to think I'm trying to interrogate you."

That got her a Look. "Aren't you?"

She shrugged. "If you want to think of it as an _interrogation._ I'm just trying to make sure _my_ lover and _his_ lover are both okay."

"Getting there." Ethan looked away. "Clint--It'll be a while, between Phil getting hurt, and what Loki--"

Natasha cut in, spared him having to finish that statement. "I know. But last night--"

"Last night was." His Adam's apple bobbed in a hard swallow. "Amazing. And it seemed to do more _for_ him than I--"

"Like I said, I suspected he'd submit to you given the opportunity," she said gently when it appeared he couldn't finish.

The soft padding of bare feet from down the hall made both of them wait; Bruce appeared with an armful of faded green plush...something, and what could only be an arrow. "Here. I think this belongs to Clint?" He set a stuffed Cthulhu and the arrow down on the counter next to the remains of Natasha's breakfast. "He said to let you know he's out in the city helping the relief efforts and will be home for dinner."

Natasha touched the stuffed animal nostalgically, fluffing the worn fuzz back and forth under her fingertips. "He wasn't supposed to--but." She glanced meaningfully at Ethan, who just shrugged helplessly in answer. "You told him he could go out this morning, didn't you?" Her tone was just shy of reproachful.

"Clint is fine, as long as he stays away from SHIELD agents and none of _us_ blame him," Ethan said mildly, putting three biscuits on a plate and smothering them with gravy before handing it to Bruce. "Here, eat."

"Thank you."

"Cthulhu?"

Natasha looked up to find Ethan eyeing the stuffed toy suspiciously. "It was a gift. Of a sort," and left the implied _'it's a long story'_ unsaid while she fished her Starkphone from a pocket and hit speed dial.

"Who are you--" Bruce stopped mid-question as the faint strains of _Die Another Day_ by Madonna echoed down the hall.

"Well, that answered that question," Natasha snarled, letting the phone clatter to the countertop. "JARVIS? Is Clint's comm here too?"

"Yes, ma'am, it remains in his room along with his Starkphone."

"Is Tony awake?"

"In the workshop, yes, ma'am. Would you care to speak with him?"

"Yes." She ignored Ethan, who was pulling out more baking ingredients, and Bruce, who was eyeing her oddly over his biscuits and tea. "Tony?"

"Hey, Natasha, it is so so so _wonderful_ to hear your lovely voice this morning, I just can't--"

"Tell me you bugged Clint, Tony, tell me he's not out there--"

"Hold it, wait, JARVIS, he left the building? You know you're supposed to--"

"He had permission, sir."

"Not from me!"

"I am not at liberty to--"

"I'm not playing visual pingpong with two disembodied voices, Tony!"

"Right. Yeah, I might've done--look, we already microchip pets, and you guys are all a hell of a lot more valuable than someone's bug-eyed chihuahua, so yeah, I fucking bugged Clint, I bugged the _lot_ of you people, I'm not about to lose you! Jesus fucking Christ! JARVIS, dump Clint's tracking frequency on her phone, please, I'm kind of busy here."

Natasha grinned, smile wide and white and _scary,_ arms crossed over her stomach as grin turned to laughter, Bruce's eyes wide and a silent _'is he serious?'_ on his lips. "Tony?"

"What!? Seriously, you can find Clint now, just, and I swear, I'm not using--"

"Don't change. Don't ever, ever change. I'm going after Clint, I'll see you guys later." She scooped her phone up one-handed, shoulders still shaking, and swept her thumb across the screen, watching the map scroll as she headed down the hall.

~~~

There was a bucket brigade ongoing six blocks from the Tower (four down Park, hang a left, two over); Natasha found Clint in the middle, sweaty and disheveled and a little fuzzy at the edges, not quite focusing but clear enough to satisfy. One of the site managers stopped her with a hand on her forearm, recognition in her eyes, in her quiet _"thank you",_ the not-subtle-at-all glance at Clint fifty-some feet away. Natasha pulled her arm free, nodding, and let herself be directed toward the stacks of supplies, food and towels and flats of bottled water.

She spent the rest of the morning passing out water, power bars, keeping a mental checklist of aid workers and making sure they didn't wind up in the first aid tents with dehydration, with exhaustion.

When she asked, "Have you had water in the last two hours?" she wouldn't take no for an answer. And she dragged Clint off the line for lunch, watched him force down a boxed meal from Jimmy Johns, a bottle of Gatorade, curious eyes of the other workers on them, wondering _"is that them? I think that's them"_ and too polite to ask.

The alcohol from the wet-nap burnt the nicks and scratches, the deeper cuts left over from the battle itself, but the cool left behind felt good; she watched Clint enjoy it, wiping sweat and grime until his breathing evened out, gaze distant and unfocused, and she let him breathe for a few minutes before steering him back to the line, and went back to her own duties.

The other workers gave her knowing looks then, nods of thanks and respect and _"I couldn't fight with you, but I can do this, and proud to do it with you"_ written in their posture, the determination in squared shoulders and perseverence of steady hands.

There was a clear line of sight all but constant between her and Clint, only people going by causing momentary blocks, and Natasha couldn't help but be grateful; Clint might have been stable, but she couldn't help being irrational, couldn't help the urge to protect and smother.

It didn't keep her from reporting them both off duty a little early so she could drag him back to the Tower - early for her, two hours late for him.

~~~

"So," Tony started, scraping his fork across his plate for the last of the gravy. "What's the plan for today, another bake-a-thon, or are you going out to join the assassin twins on clean up duty, or do you have some time to hang out in my workshop and play with the toys I made for you?"

Ethan laughed. "Bake-a-thon? Really, it was just some muffins--"

"Do not even _try_ to tell me there aren't home made molasses cookies hoarded in my vents--"

"That was a special case, I only make those for Clint--"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard, you walked in on the sneaky threesome and damn I wish I'd seen that."

Ethan snorted. "No, you really really don't. Natasha is scary." Tony was pretty sure the shiver was just for effect, but he had to agree with the sentiment. _"Second_ \-- assassin twins?"

"You do realize Natasha and Clint are master assassins."

"That--that would explain a lot."

"Yeah, it would kind of go along with the whole _'Natasha is scary'_ bit. Clint? Not so much. Not unless he's actually pointing his bow and arrow at you." Tony shrugged carelessly. "So. Time to play! Come on, come on," and he shoved his chair back from the table, the sound of it scraping across the floor startlingly loud.

Ethan could only sigh and follow along; Tony knew that expression, knew Ethan was wondering what would happen if he resisted.

"Hey JARVIS," Tony called out as the workshop doors slid shut behind them. "Remind me, Ethan needs a standard access code for the workshop."

"Of course, sir."

"Tony, I don't even--"

"No, don't even--you're IMF's liaison, you're Clint's friend, Phil practically adopted you and Natasha's been following you around like a very dangerous puppy, so, yeah, you get your own access codes. Mark my words, you will need them. Anyways!" Tony leaned over his desk and yanked out a few drawers, rummaging for something before pulling out-- "Aha! Here, take these, I don't know what IMF was thinking, giving you ten-year-old HammerTech, that stuff's so buggy it's laughable."

Ethan had to juggle a little not to drop the red-and-gold gloves, the _Stark Industries_ logo shiny down the wrist like racing stripes. "Fucking hell, Tony, you--"

"--had JARVIS look up--"

"--you mean _hack--"_ Ethan sounded two seconds from bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

"--okay, fine, he _hacked_ IMF so I could see what kind of equipment you need. Those--" he gestured at the gloves still clutched in Ethan's hands, "actually _work,_ so those and a couple of webshooters - don't look at me, I haven't tried developing them, yet, JARVIS--"

"Note taken, sir."

"Good, now where was I, oh, yes, track down Spider-man, if he's got a pair to spare you can hang out together and cling to walls, but I'd rather you stayed with the Avengers because, well, from what I gather Clint's rather attached, and I may not know Clint that well, but he saved my ass a few dozen times the other day, and probably has at least a few more in the past, and I like him having good things in his life, and you're one of them. So tell me what you need."

"Do you ever stop to breathe?" Ethan asked, and cracked up laughing at Tony's consternation.

"Well, yes. I rather enjoy breathing, it means I'm still, you know, _alive_ and that's rather important in the big scheme of things, so." Tony paused, both to take a few deep breaths and let Ethan recover before continuing. "If you're going to be pulling the kind of death-defying stunts that Clint seems to consider his way of life, then you need better gear than the trash that IMF gives you. And you might want to ask IMF why they bother using that HammerTech garbage. I'll talk to Pepper about that, you can't really argue saved money when bad tech costs in agents."

"Hey, I'm just one of those agents, I'm not in charge of equipment procurement." Ethan's attention wasn't on him anymore, it was on the gloves, fingers running over the palms.

"Eh, take some initiative once in a while. Okay, you've got the gloves, what else, what else. Those masks you use as disguises? Isn't that a little...time consuming? I'm pretty sure I can come up with a holographic version you can just upload some photos into...Just a modification and maybe an upgrade of my own designing software, here, like this. Of course, it wouldn't be all _blue,_ and it wouldn't be see-through, but I'm sure it can be done. JARVIS, make a note. Holographic disguises. Better put biolocks on them, don't want them falling into the wrong hands." Tony lost himself in the process, fingers pulling up the raw designs for the holo-software.

"Yes, sir."

"Tony?"

"What, what, Ethan, I'm working!"

"You're crazy."

Tony looked up to see Ethan shaking his head and smiling broadly, teeth flashing white.

"If I think of anything else I'll let you know." Ethan made as if to back up and leave the workshop, only to have Dummy poke him in the side inquisitively. "Is this supposed to--"

"His name's Dummy. Dummy, this is Ethan, he's a friend of Clint's, you know, the archer, so be nice." They both watched as Dummy turned and trundled over to a workbench and delicately picked up a single arrow shaft. "Yes, Dummy, him."

Dummy put the arrow back down and trundled back over, raising up to peer at Ethan claw-to-eye, then bent down and flexed his claw.

Ethan, thankfully, managed to shake himself out of his shock and reached out tentatively; Dummy closed the distance between them and shook 'hands' with a pleased chirp. "Anyone else I should know about?"

"He's not HAL, or SkyNet, or...Dummy. Butterfingers, You." Tony pointed each of them out despite the fact Ethan was still staring at Dummy.

"No, I'm over here--" 

Dummy perked up at the swift rejoinder.

"Not you, You--I am _not_ starting an Abbott and Costello skit."

Dummy drooped.

 _"That--"_ Tony said pointedly, and made sure Ethan was actually looking at the robot in question, "is You. As in capital-Y-o-u." Dummy spun his wheels and crooned dejectedly. "Fine. JARVIS, could you turn on Who's on First? Obviously Dummy's the special snowflake. You. Butterfingers over there." Tony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And you can ignore me and play with my bots, or you can come over here and help me design some new body armor for you, because I'll be damned if I let you back in the field with the standard kevlar."

Ethan turned back to him at that, raising an eyebrow as if it had been a threat. "Let me back in the field?"

Tony shrugged, turning back to his workbench. "Yeah, well, whatever. Clint and Natasha are testing my security systems, both getting in _and_ getting out, so good luck there."

"You're seriously--spending I don't know how much money and don't even tell me because I do not want to know, jesus fuck, Tony, just to make a complete stranger--"

"A stranger that made my whole team plus extras awesome omelettes--"

"Okay, fine, and muffins for Phil--"

"And molasses cookies for Clint--"

"Those were for Clint, I don't make them for anyone else." And Ethan sounded half amused, half indignant, and like he was enjoying himself entirely too much.

"I still resent the fact that you didn't share the muffins--"

"They were for _Phil,_ he was badly injured, Tony, surely you don't begrudge the man his own basket of muffins--"

"No, but I begrudge you the use of my kitchen if you aren't going to make enough to share--"

"It's the communal kitchen!"

"It's--or it was, okay, fine, it's the Avengers Tower. And we're the Avengers, so we should get muffins, damnit." Tony finished on a squeak as Dummy poked him, apparently having abandoned the little theater set up for the 'bots, and peered up at him with a baleful optic.

"Will it make you feel better if I make the rest of you some muffins?" There was no disguising the laughter in Ethan's voice, and Tony wanted to hear it, wanted to echo it, but Dummy kept poking him.

"As a matter of fact, Agent Hunt, I believe it would be the best option for everyone involved if you just scooted right up to the kitchen and started on that right now while I get going on your body armor. I'll call you down when I need to get your measurements."

"What, you don't want my input on color scheme?" Ethan backed away, inching his way toward the workshop door.

"What are you, a fashion designer? Interior decorator? Shoo! Go bake muffins." Tony waved one hand floppily at him, already turning his attention back to his work.

~~~

"Come on, Clint, time to go home." Natasha's voice seemed to drift over Clint from nowhere, and as much as his arms -- hell, his whole body -- ached, he wasn't ready to go yet. Wasn't ready to put down this burden of _all your fault--_ "You've been here since before dawn, it's almost dinner time. Let's go." His bucket was eased from limp fingers, hand on his shoulder and nudging forward, out of the line.

Soft calls of _"thank you"_ and _"good work"_ and _"been an honor"_ followed him, followed them both as he fell into line, trusting Natasha to have his back, to keep him from harm as his brain went foggy, vision white around the edges. His boots caught on rubble, training and instinct keeping him on his feet, making Natasha glance back at him, snatch at his wrist, his shoulder to keep him upright. 

She stopped after what seemed like miles, must have been only a few blocks, and tugged him to a stumbling halt. "Here," she muttered, ripping something open, and then there was more of that stinging, cooling wetness on his face, down his neck, and he heard a low rumble, felt it echo deep in his chest as he held still, breathed through the slight pain, leaned into the gentle touch. He was swaying on his feet by the time the cloth was gone. "Come on, it's only a little farther." The words echoed in his ears, and he swallowed down a reaction, just how much he wanted to just stay, just _sleep,_ and skilled fingers hit knots in his back, the sudden pain spiking white behind closed eyelids. The pleasure of relief, release of strained muscles followed, and he shook his head, a little more awake, more aware as Natasha pulled him back into that stumbling shuffle towards the Tower and--

Home.

He couldn't--

Clint swallowed hard, knowing he was going to--but he couldn't, not Natasha, not _Phil,_ and he could barely spare a thought to hope that Ethan might be willing to just--

There was a hand on his wrist, a gentle tug, and Clint let his eyes close, let Natasha lead him through the maze of wreckage and cleared pavement leading to the Tower, let her warn him--

"Stairs, almost home, Clint," soft in his ears, and there was a warning there, pride, and he reclaimed his arm, trying to put more energy into his movements since he knew, he _knew_ the Tower was temporary home to the out-of-town relief workers, refugees from damaged and destroyed buildings. _'Don't let them see you helpless.'_ It was an ugly insidious thought, and he couldn't help it.

He could tell it wasn't enough, barely managing not to trip over the stairs.

Natasha chose not to use the revolving doors, but that wasn't unexpected - those were for the fresh and naive, not exhausted soldiers and heroes returning from battle. The door closed behind him with a soft whump, and he kept moving forward, head down, feet one in front of the other across the glossy marble floor--

There was a hand on his arm, callused fingers digging into screaming muscle; he jerked to a halt mid-step, off balance, pulled halfway around and--

Jim.

 _Jim Street._ His _partner._

Bile crawled up his throat and he forced it back down, this was--he'd earned this, even if it wasn't--there was a fist raised, motion, and Clint braced, readying himself for the blow--

His arm was freed, pink-red welts from fingernails, white-to-purple-red bruising, and Jim was on the ground, one arm twisted painfully between his shoulderblades, Natasha holding him there, speaking quietly--

"Tasha." Clint's throat felt raw, like wet sandpaper on gravel.

"Not now." Jim's rifle went sliding across the floor; another police officer, shoulder patch from...somewhere not New York...stepped forward slowly, deliberately, going to one knee to pick it up with a nod, then the sidearm that followed.

"That's Jim."

"I don't care who the hell he is. He--"

"You're kind of drawing a crowd," Jim wheezed, glancing around the lobby, seeing the uniforms, police and fire department and medical, all standing back at a safe distance.

"Tasha." She growled at Clint, but aimed it at Jim. "Don't--don't hurt him. He." Clint had to stop and swallow the lump in his throat. "He earned it."

Jim's face went white with pain as Natasha squeezed his wrist harder, dug her knee into the small of his back, and then _somehow_ they were both on their feet, Jim arching backward and up on his toes from her hold.

Clint rubbed his chest absently, wincing at the ache (and not all of it was physical). "Tasha."

"We are going upstairs--"

"Let him go. _Tasha."_ Clint made himself move forward, move toward them, crowd right up into Natasha's space. _"He didn't know, Tasha."_ The words were in Russian, thick and heavily accented, a dialect from somewhere neither would admit to having been. _"He was the only one I_ trusted, _the only one who kept me_ sane."

 _"He tried to hurt you,"_ she snarled back.

 _"He earned the right,"_ Clint snapped back, and the words wouldn't _stop,_ three years of loneliness, homesickness and despair, clinging to the tattered remains of himself through a friendship built on a lie, the words he hadn't been able to give voice, the fucking _gratitude_ he'd felt at giving that life, that hellish shell of a life to Jim at the end, spat out on tangled Russian curses. _"I hate undercover, and you know it, and you're the one who sent me there because you couldn't_ go, _SWAT wouldn't take you, and,"_ and he had to stop and breathe, stop and swallow before gasping out an _"and I'm not my goddamn brother!"_ in English.

Natasha froze, Clint's kind of stillness, before glancing at him. "I don't give a damn who you are," she rasped in Jim's ear, eyes still on Clint. "I really fucking don't. But apparently _my partner_ does, so this is what's going to happen." Her grip didn't loosen, Clint could tell by the tension in her arm against his chest, but Jim lowered himself until he was feet flat on the ground, the arch in his back shallowed. "I'm going to let you go, and we're going to go upstairs, and my partner and I are going to get some sleep. You can consider yourself under house arrest. My house. My arrest. Until I'm satisfied he's safe with you. Clear?"

"Crystal," and Jim said it like it was a relief, a gift, and he let out a groan of pain as Natasha eased his arm back down. "I think you dislocated my shoulder," he grumbled, rubbing the offended joint with the opposite hand.

"Stay," Clint rasped, throat worse from the Russian, and backed away, turning to take the sniper rifle offered butt-first, sling the strap over his own shoulder, then the Glock with a nod of thanks, tucking it in the back of his jeans. "Show's over, folks," he said, not bothering to raise his voice, or try to, anyways, as the crowd was already dispersing.

The trip upstairs was oddly silent, the weight of strangely familiar weapon in his hand, exhausted numbness creeping up on him in the elevator; Natasha's gaze was hard on Jim, concerned when she spared Clint a glance, and she wasn't going to let this go, not according to how measured her breathing was, how controlled every shift of muscle screamed _just one inch._

Clint braced himself for the nonexistent sway of the elevator coming to a stop, watching with distracted disinterest as Natasha shoved Jim none-too-gently through the doors as they slid open.

"Hey, good timing--uh, okay." Ethan stopped mid-sentence, eyeing Natasha's grip on Jim's shoulder. "I take it--"

"Keep an eye on this guy." Jim stumbled forward, twisting around to glare at Natasha ineffectively. "I'm taking--"

"He has a name," Clint rasped out. "And I already _had_ this argument."

"Clint--"

"His name's Jim Street, and he was my gods-be-damned _partner_ for three fucking _years._ He's the one who got me _out,_ because _you_ couldn't, and _Phil_ couldn't and fucking _Fury_ couldn't, and if he wants to punch me in the face I fucking _earned_ it, and I'll goddamned _let_ him and you will keep your hands _off_ of him. I don't even care anymore, I don't--" The words choked him into silence, and somewhere he found the strength to run shaky hands through sweaty, grimy hair, and he hid his face behind rough palms and shook; his shoulders dropped at the feel of a strong hand sliding over muscle, square, distantly familiar.

"Get some sleep," and he'd known it wasn't Natasha, the hands sliding rifle strap off his shoulder were too big, and it wasn't Ethan, wasn't even Tony or Bruce, on their feet now, where they had been lounging on the couch; Jim's words were soft, hoarse, connecting with the dim, too-sharp memories of ops long past, when he'd trusted, had trusted-- "Get some sleep. I'm not going to punch you in the face," and the hands were gone, Jim's voice falling away, the _"Put him to bed, damnit, I'll stay here, talk with him later, god"_ weary and somehow lost.

Clint didn't fight the other hands, the scent of motor oil and ozone as his arm was dragged over a shoulder, pulling him back into the elevator. 

~~~

The door slid shut behind Tony all but silently; for once, he wished it was wood, slammable, as anger and grief burned his eyes. "JARVIS!" he barked out, pulling the back of a wrist across his face, digging his fingers into cheekbone at the end.

"Yes, sir?"

"Hack SHIELD. Download all of Clint's records, and Natasha's and Phil's while you're at it. Everything they have on the Avengers, everything they have on our _family._ Focus on Clint first, on his undercover ops, I need lists of enemies that might come after him and _friends_ who might do worse. I need those _yesterday,_ JARVIS." He slumped over his drafting table, holographic blueprints - hah! _blueprints_ \- of the Tower popping up by accident. A sweep of his arm sent the whole thing tumbling off the edge until they disappeared. 

"Of course, sir."

Tony clenched his fists at the back of his neck, swallowing against the images burnt in memory: Clint, exhausted and swaying on his feet, rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder and verbally flaying his _partner,_ his best friend and _lover_ alive over someone she'd been trying to protect him from; Natasha white-faced and speechless, defenseless in the face of Clint's wrath; Jim, repentent and _aching,_ nine years of lies and lost years--Tony gulped down tepid coffee, trying not to think about what he might be like, if he'd lost Rhodey for most of a decade because he thought he'd _beaten_ him to death--

And Clint had been, had been asleep on his _feet,_ he and Bruce had had to half-drag him to bed, he'd taken his boots off, watched Bruce take the gun from his waistband because Natasha wouldn't, couldn't, not until Clint had slitted his eyes open in one last sleepy hurrah and reached for her--

"Sir."

"Already? Give it to me, JARVIS."

"You do realize that Agent Barton's position in SHIELD does not lend itself to the acquisition of many _surviving_ enemies."

"Assassin, yes, I realize, I'm more worried about the friends. They usually do more damage."

"There are two people who may be...difficult. Sergeant JT Sanborn and Specialist Owen Eldridge. Both served with Agent Barton when he was undercover as Staff Sergeant William James. They were in an Army EOD unit."

"Injuries?"

"I assume you mean aside from the typical mental trauma such units normally face."

"Yeah, yeah, just. Clint--" Tony laughed, sickly and weak, scrubbing his face with his hands and feeling like he'd been put through a grinder and it wasn't even _his_ trauma. That bomb had already hit; now they were trying to take shelter from the nuclear fallout.

"Specialist Eldridge was accidentally shot during an attempted kidnapping. His femur was shattered in nine places and he received an honorable discharge on medical grounds. From his medical records, it appears he is still receiving physical therapy for it."

"Make a note--talk to Bruce about that. Find their contact information, print it out. Just. Jesus Christ, the last thing we need is more of Clint's _friends_ trying to hunt him down. Is Agent awake?"

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to tell him anything?"

Tony waved a weary hand dismissively and started for the door. "Nah, thanks." The trek to the infirmary level was eerily silent, the only noise his own breathing and footsteps and the soft, nearly inaudible hum of his arc reactor. 

Sure enough, Phil wasn't just awake, but sitting up by way of the adjustable hospital bed and pillows, reading what was probably SHIELD reports on the Starkpad Tony had left for him.

"Agent?" Tony asked, leaning on the open doorjamb.

"I do have a first name, Mr. Stark," came the reply, slightly hoarse from disuse and dry with humor; Tony could hear the faint wistfulness beneath.

That clinched it; finding a ready-made family in his team and dealing with Clint's issues had somehow made him soft. He couldn't find it in himself to regret it. "So, Phil, you have two master assassins in your bed - figuratively speaking, anyways, seeing as one's passed out in their quarters and the other's holding on like they're going to be swept away in a hurricane, don't argue, I was _there,_ I _saw_ her do it--" Tony added when Phil opened his mouth to interrupt. "They're--I don't know how to _fix_ this, they're--Clint is dead on his feet, I mean, like me after a week-long bender and he just handed her her _ass,_ verbally speaking, I don't even know, I mean--"

"Tony. Report." It wasn't quite Agent Coulson's on-duty-giving-orders voice, but it was close enough that Tony stopped mid-rant.

Tony slumped, straightening with a hiss as it aggravated his cracked ribs, and ran both hands over his face with a groan. "Look, you know I don't play well with others. Not when it comes to--"

"Tony, you aren't good with people. You're _amazing_ with people. You're incredibly sensitive when it counts, and you're a master of distracting people from pain, it doesn't matter whose. You're just picky about who you use those skills on. Now tell me what's going on with Clint and Natasha, please."

Tony blinked, feeling rather like he'd just taken a sucker-punch but in a good way, and opened and shut his mouth a few times before he was able to speak again. "I don't know if I'm the only one who's noticed, but Clint and Natasha are the only ones on the team who actually have a connection that's not...the invasion a few days ago. Saving each other's asses and arguing on the helicarrier. And it's been what, ten years for the three of you working together? Sleeping together? So yeah, there's this bond we have as a team, but the connection _they_ share, and that they share with _you,_ is kind of what this team is built on right now, and it's..." Tony paused, looking for words and sighed again. "I can see it _breaking._ They fought on the carrier, I mean, I know Clint was under Loki's control, and he wasn't fighting at full strength, but he was, actually, trying to _kill_ her, even if she was only trying to disable and she's better than he is and she _won,_ so...but it's still _there._ They hurt each other with _intent_ and I can see the cracks even if the rest of them can't and now Clint's lashing out at Natasha over this guy who from what I understand tried to hurt him, and I _know_ he only said the guy wanted to punch him in the face, but Clint had a fucking _rifle_ that didn't belong to him, and I don't, I don't know how to _fix_ this--"

"I've noticed, Tony," Phil said into the heavy silence once Tony ground to a halt. "I've noticed, and Natasha's noticed. Natasha sees more than I can, I only see Clint when he's down here. But this is why we've been pushing Clint and Ethan together. I'm just a reminder of everything Loki made him do right now. He actually listens to Ethan."

"So wait, you're just going to leave him to suffer?" Tony pushed off the wall, taking a few steps into the room to let the door shut behind him. _"Them_ to suffer? Because from what I can see--"

"Some things can't just be _fixed_ like it's a machine. And Clint needs more help than I can give him when I'm trapped here."

"You're looking pretty spry for a guy who got stabbed through the heart what, three days ago? Not even." The humor was weak and tired, but Tony couldn't help himself.

Phil's lips twitched in what passed for a blinding grin, for him. At least to Tony; maybe Clint and Natasha had seen actual grins before. "SHIELD does have an amazing touch-healer. I'm just lucky Nick felt it worth the--"

"Hey, hey, _Fury_ would have had the Avengers on his ass if he hadn't. And he still does, because telling us you were _dead_ and then _leaving_ us with that impression was totally uncalled for." Jesus, just how exhausted _was_ he that he couldn't even dredge up the energy for a real glare?

Phil looked sympathetic, or at least tried to - it was a good try, Tony would give him that - but said nothing.

"Look - how would you like it if you were in Clint's position? I mean, I haven't been your lover for the last ten years, and I never got the inkling you thought of me as anything more than an ass and a nuisance--"

"That's not--"

"Don't, Phil, just." Tony dug thumb and fingers into his eyes. "Don't. We thought you were _dead,_ we fought Loki in _your name_ and you just--don't. I didn't come down here to argue about this, I came down here to--Clint's fucking _shattering_ while I watch and I can't fucking _do_ anything about it." 

"Who tried to hurt him?"

Tony swallowed down the knot of grief and impotent rage and answered on instinct. "Jim Street, LA SWAT, partner on an undercover op years ago? And are there any _other_ people who are going to try and hunt Clint down, because we've got Ethan Hunt here from IMF and Jim here so far, and Ethan's _fine,_ but Jim's--well, he's okay _now,_ but he put Clint and Natasha at odds and I'd really like to not have anyone _worse_ popping up--"

"JT Sanborn and Owen Eldridge, from his Army EOD unit."

"Yeah, JARVIS got those two off the SHIELD network, I just--thought there might be ops that were eyes only."

"Do I need to tell you--although, thanks for hacking me access, I do appreciate it--" Phil interrupted himself and held up the Starkpad.

"Hey, I only use my powers for good. For, er," Tony shrugged. "Variable definitions of _good."_

Phil snorted in laughter, and, while he was able to hide the flinch and wince of pain, Tony was amazed he was comfortable enough to rub absently where he knew the bandages covered the scars.

"So. Clint and Natasha?" Tony tried again, not daring to hope for an answer, something, _anything,_ he could do to stop this trainwreck waiting to happen, shield them all from the fallout most of them were blind to and damn well shouldn't be.

"Jim was tagged for SHIELD recruitment years ago, but it was put on hold because of Clint's undercover op. Now that that's straightened out, if Jim's amenable, you could take the two of them to LA and help them move. I'll be out of bed in another two days, or so I hear. And I think it'd help--" The discomfort at having to ask, having to resort to guesses and conjecture was painful to see on Phil's face.

"Take Jim and Clint to LA. I can do that. Not Natasha? Ethan? I don't know how that whole thing works--I'm going to ask Clint to call Sanborn and Eldridge, or at least one of them, but." Tony stumbled to a halt.

"Just Jim and Clint. And make sure someone's in the area when Clint does make that phone call, I doubt it will go well. Thank you."

And there it was again, that good sucker-punch feel, chest tight, gut aching; Tony couldn't stand it, made stumbling excuses and beat a hasty retreat.

~~~

Natasha woke easily at the change in Clint's breathing pattern, propping herself on one arm as Clint's eyes opened. "Go back to sleep, Clint, it's two in the morning." 

She got a groan and a "fuck that" in answer. "I've been asleep since..." He sat up, tucking his knees to his chest and rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"Since Jim -- since _your friend_ \-- showed up." Natasha couldn't keep the anger out of her voice.

"I need to talk to him." He swallowed hard. "JARVIS?"

"Officer Street is awake on the guest level. Shall I alert him to your wishes?"

"No thanks, JARVIS, I'll just...I'll go talk to him." His hand shot out and caught Natasha's shoulder as she moved to get out of bed. "You aren't going with me."

"He tried to hurt you." Her tone was soft, smooth, but she knew - he knew - she'd killed for less, and would do so again.

"You aren't going with me," Clint said again, offering no further explanation. It'd all been said earlier, she supposed. "You stay out of it, or I'm not going." And the grief, the _need_ was choking him, wrapping him in the same bands of pain that Phil was suffering, she could watch it happen.

As much as she hated Clint being unprotected and, as far as she was concerned, alone with someone she had no reason to trust and every reason _not_ to--

\--she let him go.

~~~

 _"Don't tell me, you threatened Clint,"_ Ethan had asked, mouth quirked. _"Or whoever you knew him as."_

"Brian Gamble," Jim muttered into the mouth of his half-empty beer bottle. He'd said it then, too, adding, at the time, _"my partner. Three years. Beat him to death."_ before he'd paused, then _"Thought so, anyways."_

"Was, yeah." The words were rough, drifting from the elevator doors, now open, and how had Jim missed that?

"Clint now, I guess?" he managed through the knot in his throat. That's what Natasha, what Ethan had called him.

Clint nodded, and Jim watched him slowly close the distance, the light from the elevator fleeing as the doors closed behind him, leaving the apartment half-shadowed by the tracklighting in the kitchen. "You gonna try and hit me again?" One hand rubbed at the opposite shoulder, and Jim realized he wasn't hiding anything, was telegraphing anxiety and grief in a display of trust that--that--

This wasn't Brian Gamble, cocky asshole of a best friend. This was someone stripped down and raw, someone he didn't know.

"I think trying anything would get me killed."

That got him a shrug, and Clint glanced away before forcing his gaze back. "I deserve it, for what happened back then."

 _'And for what happened here?'_ Jim didn't dare ask that. "What happened? Was it all an act?" The rage hit him again, blinding red, flashing the sight of Brian's limp body next to train tracks across his mind, the sight of him (of _Clint)_ firing arrows at bipedal technolobster aliens on television. "What the _hell_ happened? We were _friends, goddamn you!"_ Breath choked him, turning words into a strangled sob. "You were my partner."

"You think I don't know that?" It came as a hoarse whisper, aching and painful. "You think that's not why I called Tasha off?" Clint was moving slower now, then stopped on the far side of the bar, counter pressed into his hips as he wrapped both arms around his chest. "I'm the one that lied, I knew you hadn't sold me out to Fuller. I knew that. That's not--" He gasped in a breath, leaning over the counter to run both hands through unkempt hair and stare at black marble. "I couldn't do my _job_ while on the team, I was ordered out. I had to take the shot, I had to give myself a door out and--I never wanted to burn you--" and the words wouldn't come.

"You could have told me, I was your _partner!_ I would have had your back--" Jim stopped as Clint's hands came down flat on the counter with a resounding _bang._

"Undercover." The tone was weak, echoingly hollow. "You go undercover and you don't _have_ choices. You don't get to keep a damn _thing."_ Clint looked away for a long silent moment, seemingly fighting for words. "I never wanted to do any of it. I just wanted--I wanted my partner at my back. I wanted my best _friend_ back, I wanted...I wanted it to be over and to come home and I couldn't have _any_ of it, not until it was over, and then maybe they'd let me--but they didn't, they never--I was under _orders,_ Jim. The kind they could kill me over."

Jim felt the blood drain from his face.

"I'm sorry." Clint looked crumpled over the bar, hands fisted in his hair and pulling, knuckles white. "You were--I should have found another way."

"I've never done undercover," Jim said, half-numb in shock and fear. Terror over what-might-have-beens, dawning understanding, a glimmer of hope that the lies hadn't included the friendship Clint had been forced to-- "But I'd rather have you alive and hating me than dead." He couldn't believe he was saying it, it was so Clark Kent-and-Lex Luthor, but he found it was true.

Clint jerked away, elbows skidding on marble, eyes wide. "I-- _Never."_ It came out as a snarl, and Jim couldn't fault him for the sudden anger. "I never hated you, god _damn_ it, Jim, what do you take me for, some kind of monster? Someone like--like--" He spun, crossing the room to pick up Tony's forgotten snifter and hurl it against the wall. Glass exploded in a shower of glittering shards.

 _Nowhere near me,_ Jim noticed, heart hurting, throat tight with suppressed tears. "I never hated you, either. I could never bring myself to, that's why it hurt so much, I didn't, I didn't _understand,"_ he said, "and you're not a monster. You're not--Look." He stopped, let out a gusty sigh, rounded the end of the counter, stopped in arm's reach of Clint's shoulder. His hand reached out, almost of its own volition, hovered there for an instant and dropped. "What was the lie? What was--give me something to build on, damnit, I want my friend back, even if--"

"My name. That fucked up argument after I took that shot, the one in the locker room--"

"I never sold you out, Br-- _Clint--"_ and Jim stopped himself from saying it, but not before Clint heard and flinched. He wanted to see Clint's face, watch the emotion play across his features, but Clint's back was to him and he didn't know how-- "I didn't, I swear--"

"I know. I know you didn't, I had to--They pulled me from SWAT, I had orders to flip to the Cartel, you were the only one I trusted. I was trying to flush--I couldn't put you in danger." And Clint hunched his back, folding in on himself, covering his face with his hands.

"Dirty cops." Jim found himself reaching out again, hand meeting tense shoulders and pulling, almost yanking as Clint resisted, and then bracing himself as the resistance vanished, Clint almost falling into him.

"Yeah." Clint clutched at Jim's arms, head bowed.

"Hey, look at me. Look at me," and Jim shook him a little, pressing his lips together in a fine white line at the expression of bleak hopelessness and loss in Clint's eyes. "The friendship wasn't a lie." It wasn't - quite - a question.

 _"Never._ Never that." Clint rasped with harsh insistence.

"Good. Because I want my friend back."

Time stretched out between them, thick and heavy. Bleak despair faded to disbelief, and then to hope and a sick sense of relief blossomed, Clint letting go to slide his hands up the back of Jim's neck, rubbing furrows in his hair and pressing forehead-to-forehead.

_"Please."_

This close Jim could smell the salt more than see it, the light from the kitchen blocked by his own body as they pressed close, arms like steel bars across one another's back, hand at the nape of neck, slotted into the notch above a hipbone. Breath synchronized on its own, Jim's rib cage expanding as Clint's sank, and then opposite as Clint inhaled, and they shared the air between them, the silence tremulous and fragile before Clint sagged with exhaustion.

"Here. Come on, there's a perfectly good couch--" and Jim half-supported, half-dragged Clint the few steps to that leather-covered monstrosity, carefully lowering them both to the cushions and letting Clint sprawl more on him than off. "Sleepy?"

"Mmm." 

Jim could only guess the hum was meant to be an affirmative, and carefully maneuvered them both so they were lying down, Clint half across his chest, half pinned between his hip and the back of the couch. "Go to sleep. We'll talk more in the morning, okay?"

Clint didn't answer, and Jim's eyes stung as he realized he'd fallen asleep already.

~~~

"Ethan?" Bruce kept his voice low, little more than a whisper in an attempt to leave Jim and Clint undisturbed.

"They're asleep, I think. Clint is, anyways," Ethan said, tipping his head back against the wall he was leaning against.

"I know, I asked JARVIS to tell me. I'm worried about Clint." Bruce raised the doctor's bag in his hand.

Ethan frowned at him.

"I'm not a neurologist. But Clint's been sleeping a lot more than sleep deprivation would explain."

Ethan froze, color draining from his face even in the dim lighting from the kitchen.

"You hadn't noticed?"

"It's not unusual after a bad op," Ethan said with a shrug. "There were times we'd be sleeping fifteen hours a day for up to a week after, and then only if another team mate was in the room with us."

"That would be convincing..." Bruce pulled his glasses off with his free hand and fiddled with the earpiece.

"But?"

"It's so erratic I'm worried about other causes. Possibly side-effects of Loki's mind control. From what I understand, Erik Selvig's fine, but Loki's influence on Clint seems to have been much more thorough." Bruce's glasses slid back on, and he pushed them up over the bridge of his nose with one finger. "What are you doing lurking out here anyways?"

For a long moment, Bruce thought he wasn't going to get an answer before Ethan sighed and pushed off the hallway wall, looking off into the dark sitting area past the kitchen. "Tasha called me, told me to keep an ear open for trouble. Clint wouldn't let her referee."

Bruce snorted out a laugh, and cut himself off, listening hard for a reaction from the pair asleep in the other room. "Well, if you're going to play guard dog, you might as well come along. Clint trusts you more than I, anyways." He didn't give Ethan the chance to react, just firmed his grip on his bag and stepped smoothly through the kitchen, past the counter, and gave a little hop-jump to dodge the vacuum-bot clearing broken glass from hardwood floor on his way to the couch.

Jim's eyes open to narrow slits at the quiet pop of the latch, and Bruce murmured a quick, "It's okay, go back to sleep, just checking on Clint," as he fished out his stethoscope, holding it up for Jim to see. Bruce kept his movements slow, deliberately unthreatening as he checked heart rate, blood pressure, estimated temperature, knowing full well that JARVIS would be more accurate but needing the comfort of a more hands-on approach.

"Someone's telling me the story tomorrow," Jim rasped out as Bruce packed away the few pieces of equipment he'd dared use.

Bruce just nodded absently. "He's fine."

"Bullshit. Tell me tomorrow." Jim tightened his arms around Clint almost reflexively, possessive and protective both.

"One of us will tell you." Ethan's voice floated from somewhere behind him, somewhere in the dark, and Jim's gaze shifts, trying to find him. "It's just me, Jim, go to sleep," and the tone's wry, amused.

Bruce shook his head, heaved himself to his feet and led Ethan to his lab - more a spare Tony'd granted him access to while his own was being finished and equipped, because, hey, invasion recovery - and slung the doctor's bag across the first table he came to, almost too far; it hung a third over the edge, but didn't fall.

"Clint okay?" Ethan closed the door behind him, approaching slowly.

"Far as I can tell." Bruce wasn't at all confident, ran shaky hands through his hair. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Bruce?"

"Do you have any scans of Clint's brain activity before and after?"

"It is within my operational parameters to record the baseline vital functions of those close to sir. Sir also asked me to monitor Clint's condition to the extent of my medical capability at least once an hour since his retrieval."

"I take it that's a _'yes.'"_ Ethan laughed.

"That would be the case, Ethan."

"You wouldn't happen to have any while he was on the helicarrier, would you? I know you hacked it." The byplay was already background noise as Bruce dove head first into the scans popping up on the glass panes descending from the ceiling. 

"I'm sorry, my priorities at that time were to access and download--" JARVIS stopped as Bruce waved him off, dismissing both apology and explanation as unnecessary. "If you would specify your needs, I can sort through the available data."

"All right. Give me a random sampling of brain function prior to Loki's interference, and scans just before and after each time he fell asleep since, and midway points." Two columns of baseline scans lit up on his left, a half dozen windows showing blue squiggly lines. Columns of four windows spun out beside and around him, curving in a great arc until the last, which just held the top two. A half-window-sized gap hung in front of him. "This one?"

"I am missing data for his visit to see Agent Coulson when he was still in SHIELD's infirmary."

"That's all right. I can see--"

"Is that saying what I think it says?" Ethan was suddenly right _there,_ standing next to him, looking between the baseline scans and then down the line, comparing the patterns of blue squiggles.

"I'm not a neurologist, and I can't say for certain, but it does seem that Clint's mind is attempting to revert to normal functionality, and the unusual sleeping pattern is helping that along." Bruce didn't bother asking how _Ethan_ knew what the scans were telling him; it was simple pattern recognition, a gradual normalization across the rows, with more erratic spikes down the columns on the post-Loki screens.

"I don't think it's the sleeping pattern, I think it's just the _sleep._ So long as someone he trusts is with him." Ethan grumbled something under his breath, something Bruce couldn't understand. "I thought it was me. I'm not sure I like knowing it wasn't."

"Part of it _is_ you. And even if you weren't a factor in his recovery, the only people he really trusts are Phil and Natasha, and Phil's not up to chasing him around."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Ethan reached out, fingertips brushing glass screen. "I'm glad it's just that. That he's getting better."

Bruce knew better than to ask about the choked quality to his voice, the way it sounded like Ethan's throat was closing up. He hadn't liked the thought that the sleep might have meant something far more sinister himself.


	5. Chapter 5

False dawn still robed the tower in darkness when Jim blinked himself awake, half buried in the couch cushions by Clint's body still lying heavily atop him. He took a moment to breathe, to swallow down the lump in his throat, remembering times long past when this would have been normal, when waking up tangled together after a night of drinking or bullshit or the exhaustion of a bad op wouldn't have been a fucking _gift_ and he'd taken it for granted--

Breath whooshed out in a gusty sigh as the arm across his chest pressed down, elbow in his ribs. Jim shifted, cupping a shoulder in his palm, sliding the other arm up Clint's side where it was wedged between Clint's bulk and the back of the couch.

"Good morning," Jim whispered, hoarse with sleep. "Just me, Clint, we're _fine."_

Clint had raised himself up enough to look down at him, still cast mostly in shadow though the kitchen light had never turned off entirely. His eyes gleamed blankly, dull and disbelieving enough to make Jim's heart ache.

"We're fine, Clint, promise." Jim pulled Clint down further, arms around his torso in a bone-crushing hug.

A small sound of pain escaped Clint, but he returned the hug just as readily, wouldn't let up even when Jim tried to, Clint's face buried in his neck and breath quick, hot and shallow over his collarbone.

"It's okay," Jim found himself saying, over and over, words of soft comfort in ears not awake enough, not _there_ enough to listen, not according to how Clint was clinging to him; his nightmares had never been violent, or noisy, but he'd always been--

"I'm sorry." It was shaky, uncertain, offered with--

"Clint. Don't, it's okay. This is--I thought you were _dead,_ I thought you'd turned and I'd _killed_ you, you don't know--" Jim swallowed again, letting his head thump back on the couch cushion. "Okay, maybe you do, because--"

And now Clint was laughing at him, the tremors from before having changed to a painfully familiar pattern of silent shakes. "You got me out, the only way you could. I'll always..." It was Clint's turn to pause and swallow, his entire body tensing in regret. "I'll always be grateful for that, even if. You know."

Jim had to suppress the burn in his eyes. "Yeah, I know. And you're welcome, even if." He stopped then, content to lie there in silence, fingers trailing up and down Clint's spine until nature pulled them apart, drove them down the hall with a knowing chuckle and a blush for all their unwillingness to be out of one another's presence even for a moment.

The door slid shut behind Jim, locking him in his room, and then another as he crossed into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection, pulling at the skin around his eyes and smoothing out the wrinkles he had to admit were more from frowns these last long years than laughter. That would change, he hoped, seeing the spark back, feeling hope swell his heart in his chest, and he sent up a grateful prayer, a thank you to whoever, or whatever, might be listening. 

Clint was waiting for him in the kitchen, having changed into sweats; there was fresh coffee waiting on the counter, two steaming mugs, sugar bowl, milk and spoons. The coffee pot burbled a greeting and puffed out a cloud of steam.

A wave of nostalgia swept over Jim as he picked up one of the spoons, flipping it over and over in his hand. The rest was ignored for the lump in his throat.

"Spoon Wars?" Clint asked softly, shifting closer and brushing the back of Jim's wrist with two fingers.

Jim smiled, a flash of teeth, too bright and gone in an instant as he nodded, putting the spoon down on the countertop and slapping his hand against the bowl so that the handle flew up and vibrated.

"We're kind of missing half the pieces."

Jim snorted. "We're in _Tony Stark's kitchen._ You think we can't find stuff to use?"

The coffee pot whistled questioningly.

"No, sir, you are not playing. You'd be the Siege Engine of Doom (tm), and there'd have to be two of you," Clint muttered, pulling open drawers and spilling handfuls of stuff on the counter while Jim got empty coffee mugs and saucers from the cabinet.

Instead of the forlorn-sounding croon, the coffee pot gave another whistle, one sounding like an "ah-HA!" and made Clint look back at it suspiciously.

"There something I need to know about?" Jim asked.

"God, I hope not. We have enough?" Clint added some packets of duck, soy, and sweet and sour sauce to the growing pile.

Jim eyed it speculatively. "Well, if it's not, there's more where those came from," he answered, starting to divvy up the spoils: normal silverware; salt and pepper shakers; nuts, bolts, washers and other random bits that had never quite made it back down to Tony's workshop or the garage; chopsticks; condiment packets from half a dozen take out restaurants; condom packets; SD cards and a few thumb drives of various descriptions; a pair of Pepper's earrings.

"Most of the launchables are going to bounce all over."

Clint frowned at the makeshift game pieces, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, I--"

"If I might offer a suggestion?"

Jim startled, looking around wildly for the source of JARVIS' voice.

"Your pardon, sir. There are individual flavored creamers in the pantry, if that is what you were missing."

"JARVIS, I love you." Clint's voice was entirely too sincere as he retrieved the indicated creamers. "Here we are. Ammunition. Set up your battlefield."

"Aye-aye, sir!" Jim replied with a laugh and a picture-perfect salute; he turned back to the counter and got hit in the back of the head with a tiny tub of creamer for the insubordination.

The next hour or so was taken up by cheerful insults, game pieces being shifted around, tubs of creamer being launched down-counter with spoons that had been put into service as catapults. It occurred to both of them that it would have been far easier to play from opposite sides of the counter, or even the table a dozen feet away, but neither would give up the chance to bump shoulders or hips, aim a playful punch.

Jim had just taken out two packets of soy sauce, a tub of creamer landing partially on both, when the hair at the back of his neck prickled, and Clint straightened, attention drawn elsewhere. Dawn was pinkening the sky as Clint looked up, looked around, and caught sight of Ethan leaning against the wall at the mouth of the hallway. "Hey."

"I have no idea what you're playing, but it looks like you're having fun," Ethan said softly, voice full of amusement and unquestioning curiosity.

"Spoon Wars." Clint's footsteps were silent as he crossed the kitchen, and then he'd tilted his head, Ethan cupping the back of his neck as they kissed good morning, then again, deeper.

Jim couldn't look away even as they parted to rub noses before Ethan pulled Clint into a full-body hug, saw Ethan's lips move as he whispered something in Clint's ear before Clint kissed him again and--

A hand gently shut his jaw, fingers slim and strong and callused against his skin. "Pretty, aren't they?" Natasha murmured.

"I." Jim swallowed hard. "Are they usually that--"

Natasha didn’t answer immediately; Jim saw Clint raise one shoulder in a careless shrug, and guessed it signified permission. "Clint gets a little skin hungry when he's had a major trauma. He's had several in the last few days." She raised an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to protest. "Speaking of...Can I have a good morning kiss, or are you saving them all for Ethan today?"

Ethan shook with laughter, letting go after rubbing Clint's cheek with his fingers, and Clint turned, catching Natasha up in his arms as she closed the distance with a few easy strides, her legs winding around his waist as he completed his turn and pinned her against the refrigerator door, licking into her mouth.

"That's...one hell of a good morning kiss," Jim said numbly, blinking in surprise. "But you're--"

Ethan glanced at him in askance before turning his attention back to Clint and Natasha. "I'm what?"

Clint and Natasha parted before Jim could figure out how to finish the statement, and Natasha watched him point helplessly between herself and Ethan a few times before unwrapping herself from around Clint's body. "Clint has two boyfriends and a girlfriend, I think is the easiest way to put it."

"Tasha," Clint whined, ducking his head as his ears turned bright red.

"Hey, it's true, and now you don't have to try and explain." Natasha ran her fingers through the short hair at the back of his head.

"Two boyfriends and--" Jim tried not to swallow his tongue.

Clint shrugged again. "Phil's still in the infirmary," and Natasha hugged him again, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Yeah, Clint here is collecting his own harem, welcome to the club, if that's your thing." Tony's voice cut through the darkness, good humor and high energy defusing the sudden tension as he appeared from behind Ethan and slapped a near-empty file folder on an empty spot on the counter. "Here, Clint, call these people, I don't want more undercover operations coming to bite you in the ass."

"I don't have a harem, Tony. I think you're mistaking me for yourself."

"Nope, I really don't think so." Tony ignored everyone else as he stole an empty coffee mug from the wreckage of kitchen utensils and junk strewn across the counter. The coffee maker beeped at him. "One night stands do not equal _committed relationship_ with three different people at the same time." 

"How about a committed relationship with one person?" Pepper asked, smile turning to stifled laughter in her tone, having belatedly followed Tony into the kitchen.

"And if you ever quit being a coward and make honest people out of Pepper and Steve, you'll have your own mini-harem," Natasha added before Tony could protest.

Tony looked up at her in a panic, glancing between Natasha and Pepper, and then at Clint and Ethan and Jim. "You aren't--"

"I need a machete to get through the sexual tension between the two of you, Stark," Natasha added. "And I haven't seen anything to make me think _Pepper's_ not just as bad." 

A shrill whistle brought the bickering to a halt and drew everyone's attention to Ethan, still leaning against the wall, finger and thumb in his mouth. "Okay, now that we all know who's sleeping with who and who _wants_ to be, I should probably make breakfast, which means _I_ need to get in the refrigerator and the two of _you--"_ and he nodded at Clint and Jim, "need to figure out what to do with _that,"_ and he pointed to the mess on the counter.

"That's easy," Tony answered for them, obviously glad of the change in subject. "JARVIS, record the the layout to memory, including wherever I stole my cup from."

"Done, sir. If I may, sir?"

"Go ahead, JARVIS." Tony waved pinky and ring finger as he danced around Pepper and Natasha fetching their own cups of coffee from the happily burbling coffee pot, Ethan raiding the refrigerator and piling foodstuffs on the counter.

"I believe part of the enjoyment is the mess that's made. I would suggest not making a holographic version withouth further input."

Jim caught Clint easily as he collapsed against his shoulder in helpless laughter, wrapping his arms around Clint's waist in support and contentment warming him from the inside out. Tony smiled at the expression Jim knew he must be wearing, and raised his coffee cup in silent toast, to them, to JARVIS' greater wisdom, to this oh-so-welcome new-found family. 

~~~

"JARVIS?" Phil looked up at the ceiling, chest aching with more than the fading aftereffects of yet another healing session.

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell me about Jim Street." He'd known this was coming, known that if Clint's face were made public - and by now anyone not living under a rock would recognize him on sight - that certain operations were going to hit back, hard.

"What would you like to know? I assume you have read Officer Street's file. It seems to have a notation for recruitment, sir."

The backs of his eyelids held no answers, and the pain of finger and thumb did little to distract. "Jim and Clint, how are they getting along? Does Jim know about Clint and Ethan, or the three of us? Anything I might need to know for Clint's sake?" Phil frowned. "Any idea if Clint is planning on..." He stopped, shook his head and sighed. If Clint wasn't coming to see him today, Phil didn't want to know. It hurt too much, and Phil knew why, understood, but it didn't help his own pain.

"I have recordings, if you would like, sir. I do not believe it would be an intrusion of privacy, since none of them were outside the public areas of the Tower. And you would not be the only one to listen."

The offer was a surprise, and Phil couldn't help but ask. Even hearing Clint's voice was too much a lure for him to resist, faint balm for the withdrawal his lover's absence caused. "Please." It came out as a whisper as Phil's throat closed, and he had to remind himself it would only be two days, two days before he could leave the infirmary, earlier than he'd told anyone, had asked Fury to _lie_ for him.

"Of course, sir." JARVIS sounded sympathetic, far more compassionate than his creator ever actually _sounded_ despite Phil's knowing otherwise.

Phil closed his eyes again as he listened, first to the argument between Clint and Jim, angry and tear-choked by turns, then to the reassurances and friendly bickering and insecurity of that morning, Pepper and Natasha's hilarious exposure of Tony's _thing_ for Captain America and Ethan's wrangling of the crowd afterward (and when did _he_ become Phil's stand-in?).

"There's one other, ongoing. But I don't know whether--"

"Play it, JARVIS, I want to, I need to hear." Phil wasn't quite desperate to play saved voice messages, but he might _get_ that desperate, if Clint didn't--

"Yes, sir."

 _"So tell me. Natasha mentioned two boyfriends, and you said Phil's still in the infirmary."_ There was a pause, and Phil could see a shadowy mental construct of Jim trying to look inviting, curious. _"Natasha's probably the scariest person, ever. And Ethan seems to be just as much the crazy daredevil you are, so. What's Phil like?"_

Clint's little huffing snort of laughter made Phil's heart clench, made him tilt his head down to his shoulder and breathe through the pain.

 _"He's...different. He's our handler, Natasha's and mine. People say he's not human, he's an android, he never smiles, he has forms for everything. He's--"_ and Phil could hear the swallow, could see the dropped gaze, the faint flush of embarrassment, and knew what was coming next. _"He's the first person I ever trusted. And he earned it."_

God, he knew he shouldn't be listening to this, but he couldn't help himself, and had to bite back a growl of frustration.

 _"Sounds like a good guy. And a good guy to have at your back."_ Jim's voice was soft, accepting, and it was just another confirmation of Clint's insecurity, another reason Phil needed to _see,_ to touch and reassure and--

 _"I love him."_ Clint's whisper was heartbreaking, guiltstricken and painful to hear.

For all their years together, Phil had never managed to hear Clint tell that to someone _else,_ not without Clint's knowledge, and.

_"So when do I get to meet him? The way you said he's in the infirmary made it sound like it's here."_

"JARVIS, turn it off," Phil managed past the lump in his throat.

"Yes, sir." JARVIS sounded subdued, almost as depressed as Phil felt.

"You were right to question whether I should listen to that."

"Clint's relationship with Jim seems...very uncertain, at least from Clint's side, if I might say so, sir."

"You can say so, JARVIS, you can say anything you think I should know. And it's just like Clint to be walking on eggshells like this, damnit." The curse was spat as an afterthought, before Phil could bite back the frustration. "I've been fighting his insecurity as long as I've known him."

"I believe Clint is far more nervous about Jim's opinion of his relationship with you than is warranted, sir. At least," and JARVIS' voice lowers to a conspiratorial level, "I get that impression from Jim's attempts to talk Clint into introducing the two of you."

"In other words, I need to get my act together before Jim thinks we're _both_ basketcases." Phil shut his eyes again, letting himself wallow in his own pain, in how much Clint's hurting for this separation and the helplessness of being unable to do anything to assuage it for a moment before pushing it down, locking it away. "Thank--" He had to stop, clear his throat for the blockage. "Thank you, JARVIS."

"Of course, sir. You may want to go over Officer Street's file again while you wait. I've taken the liberty of queuing it up on your StarkPad."

"JARVIS, I don't know how Tony ever survived without you."

"I shudder at the thought, sir. I am only ecstatic that he did."

Phil snorted in bitter humor, turning his attention to personnel files to get his head back in the game before a certain someone _('Clint,'_ his so-very-nearly-damaged heart beat out) could wreak more havok on his equilibrium.

He managed to get through Jim Street's and Chris Sanchez's files before there was a tentative knock on the wall - not even the door jamb, as it was _open,_ a ready invitation to visitors - and the top half of Clint's head became briefly visible past the edge.

"Quit hiding and get in here." Phil tried to make it his normal, everyday voice and was sure he'd failed spectacularly watching as Clint practically slunk through the door, leaning against the wall next to it as if it were the only thing holding him upright. "I know you're out there, you might as well come in, too."

There was a shaky laugh from the hall, and then Phil had a face to match the file, body language that spoke of hope and eagerness and anticipation rather than Clint's unnerving anxiety.

"You must be Jim Street." Phil let a bit of a smile leak past his normal bland expression, more than the bare twitch he offered most.

Jim nodded. "I would have been down here earlier, but this guy took some convincing." He tilted his head back towards Clint.

"Clint." Phil took the opportunity, glanced past Jim's shoulder to where Clint was trying to melt into the wall. "Would you come here, please?"

Clint swallowed hard, left hand closing, opening as if reaching for his bow before taking a few careful steps forward.

"Think he'd make it in SHIELD?"

"Make it--Sir?" Clint blinked, straightening so fast Phil was half afraid his knees would collapse. "You really--" The question cut off, Clint biting his lip as he glanced back at Jim in confusion.

God, it hurt, it hurt so much, knowing Clint doubted his trust, doubted everything he'd fought to instill in the last decade-plus, that Clint's opinions _meant_ something, were worth-- "Jim? How attached are you to your job with SWAT?"

Jim chuckled a little, smile too sharp to be _happy._ "Like the job, hate my boss. Would miss a couple of my team, mostly." He shrugged.

"And if you could bring Sanchez and Kaye with you?" Phil raised an eyebrow at Jim's stunned expression. "All three of you have been on the short list to recruit for years. We couldn't do anything about it without blowing Clint's cover."

"Are you serious?"

Phil shrugged one-shouldered; it still hurt too much to move both. "It's quite obvious to me that Clint wants you here, you're no more eager to leave, and if a position with SHIELD doesn't interest you, Tony can probably find you one with Stark Industries."

Clint choked. "Phil, you can't just--First Ethan, now Jim, and...you can't just recruit everyone I ever worked with!"

"What's the use in being Assistant Director if I can't use it to make you happy? Besides, the job was Ethan's any time he agreed to take it, and the only thing stopping me from offering it to Jim was your undercover status." Phil risked the pain of laughter and shook his head. "Don't worry, I'm not going to try and recruit Sanborn or Eldridge."

"God, please, _don't._ They _hate_ me. And I'm not even _kidding,"_ Clint moaned, crossing his arms over his shoulders and hiding his face.

Jim glanced between the two, blinking. "Assistant Director? Sanborn? Eldridge?"

"I'm Assistant Director for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, better known as SHIELD. And," Phil added, tilting his head, "Clint and Natasha's handler, and lover. Sanborn and Eldridge--"

"--are the guys I worked with in Iraq on the bomb squad. They thought I was totally fucked up crazy. Not just--"

"--your normal daredevil crazy, yes, I know."

The silence was strained then, Clint trembling ever so slightly, gazing down at the floor as if it held the answers to all life's mystery, Phil watching him sadly, inexplicably helpless to stop hitting Clint's soft spots - and he knew he shouldn't have gone there - and Jim glancing between the two again.

"Yeah, no. Jesus, Clint, stop it." Jim turned, ignoring Phil, and reached out, stepping forward and pulling Clint against him.

_Clint gets a little skin hungry when he's had a major trauma._

_'Thank you, Natasha, thank you, Jim, for understanding, jesus fuck,'_ Phil thought, thumped his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling, giving Clint as much privacy as he could, unable to block out the soft whispers of _'they don't matter'_ and _'you've got me and Ethan and your team and Phil now.'_ His eyes rolled shut as he fought down a sympathy reaction, fought back the urge to fight his way to his feet and just _go_ to him, and practically jumped out of his skin as the bed shook, eyes snapping open to find Jim easing Clint onto the edge of the mattress.

"This works better if you can scoot over," Jim murmured, Clint strangely acquiescent between them.

"Yes, of course, I," and he shook his head, levering himself sideways with his good arm and breathing an achy sigh of relief as Clint rolled into him, stretching out, nose tucked in Phil's neck. "I'm not going anywhere, Clint." He wrapped his good arm around hunched shoulders as best he could, rested his left hand on the arm slung over his belly. 'Thank you,' he mouthed silently up at Jim, getting a small nod of respect and a salute before Jim's gaze shifted to Clint, hand dropping to brush through short hair.

Then he was gone, door sliding shut behind him and leaving Phil alone, arms and heart full of Clint, just the way he wanted them.

~~~

"Someone tell me what happened," Jim snapped, stalking back into the kitchen and leaning back against the counter.

Tony and Bruce looked up at each other from the StarkPad they'd been hunched over, then at him; Ethan finished handing a pie pan to Natasha.

"Well?"

"What, exactly, are you referring to?" Natasha asked carefully, tonelessly.

Jim snorted. "Clint's falling apart, I just left him asleep in Phil's bed, and I don't have a _clue_ what's going on with him. You said he's skin hungry when he's had a major trauma, and he's had several in the last few days, so I'm guessing the invasion, Ethan, me, but none of that is enough for what I just saw down there. Unless it has something to do with Phil being injured, and even _he's_ well on the road to recovery from what I saw."

"Are you staying?" Tony asked quietly.

"Staying? I wasn't about to leave, not now that I have him back. Not after Phil offered me a place with SHIELD. He mentioned something about you finding a place for me with Stark Industries if I wasn't interested in that. And it's not like the New York force wouldn't take me."

"There's a place on my security team if you want it, I just wanted to know if you were _staying."_ Tony was on his feet now, looking deceptively relaxed, public smirk on his face. Jim already hated it. "I'm not giving ammunition to someone who's just going to _leave_ him again."

"I failed him once, and we both paid for it. I'm not doing it again. Losing him wasn't worth it."

Tony stared back at Jim, holding his gaze until he felt stripped bare, knew if he failed whatever measure he was being held up against that Tony would have no problem tearing his life apart, that neither Ethan nor Natasha would hesitate to _end_ his life if that's what was called for. He didn't know what Bruce would do, but the man was a doctor with anger-management issues. He forced himself to remain still, let his mind sink into the same waiting space he went to on ops, until Tony nodded at him, eyes warming just enough. "An Asgard named Loki came to Earth and stole a device called the Tesseract - that's what powered the portal over New York City. He used magic to take over Clint, some kind of mind control. Clint..."

"Clint may not be Phil's equal in rank," Ethan picked up the thread, "but as far as the field agents go at SHIELD, he's about as high up the food chain as it gets. He had the knowledge and the skills necessary to build a human army, and take down SHIELD from the inside."

"He blames himself for Phil's injuries." Jim felt numb with shocked understanding. 

"Among other things," Bruce said gently. "There were casualties--"

"Not as many as there would have been had anyone else been in his place." Ethan was adamant. "Clint did a lot to minimize the fallout, so don't go thinking that--"

"--that he'd go trigger happy if given the opportunity?" Jim snarled. "What kind of idiot do you think I am? I wanted answers so I could _help_ him, not so I could just be another voice in his head going _'it's all your fault!'_ You said Loki used mind control, and yeah, it sounds like something out of horror novel, but so did that portal and the aliens you guys fought, and it's not his fault. Whatever happened, it's not his fault - not even the damn shot he took in the bank nine years ago, damnit. I know that now." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper at the end.

"He didn't have a choice." Natasha's soft voice made him look up.

"I know, he was undercover. Not like I can do anything about it now. But. I know the reasons _why_ and he hasn't changed _that_ much. He was my partner for three goddamn years." Jim unfolded his arms, ran both hands over his face in frustration. "He's not just dealing with _now_ though. He's dealing with LA, and Iraq if what he said a few minutes ago is to be believed, and I don't know what the hell he went through with you," and he tilted his head at Ethan.

"Croatia," Natasha said before Ethan could open his mouth.

"Russia and Dubai," Ethan shot back.

"No, Croatia was worse. He went into a war zone and came out addicted to adrenaline so bad the only way he could survive was to go right back in."

"Cut it out," Jim put in before Ethan could find a comeback; he doubted Ethan could, the man looked like he'd been sucker-punched, face white and shoulders hunched. "Did someone get hurt there?"

"Eldridge. Attempted kidnapping, accidentally shot during recovery. His femur was shattered in nine places." Tony said it all by rote, emotionless and cold.

"Jesus, Clint," Jim groaned. Ethan started to say something, but stopped when Jim held up a hand. "Croatia. I don't need details, but was he protecting someone?"

Ethan winced, ducking his head. "My wife."

"Your--Oh my god, you didn't. You're a _field agent,_ and you--Tell me you did not make him think that--" Jim swallowed the anger down. It made sense. It all made _sense._ "Eldridge getting shot wasn't an accident. God-fucking- _damnit."_ Jim spun on his heel and slammed both hands straight down into the countertop.

"You don't even know what _happened_ over there--" Bruce started.

"I don't have to," Jim ground out. "The only thing Clint ever fucking wanted was to protect people who couldn't protect themselves. He will do fucking anything, _anything_ he has to to get the damn job done, and if the only option he has is to give someone he can't protect any other way than to get them off the damn battlefield is a medical discharge, he's going to damn well do it, and he's the best shot anyone I've ever worked with has ever seen. There's no way he shot Eldridge by fucking _accident."_ There was silence beyond the sound of his own heavy breathing, nothing to break the span of countertop between his hands. "If he thought he'd failed in protecting _your wife--"_

"He knew it was a coverup long before I ever--"

"That doesn't mean a damn thing and you know it. At least _my_ mistake," and Jim paused for breath, to turn around and glare, "the only one I can actually blame myself for? Is for taking him at face value instead of believing in our partnership. Letting Fuller influence things. I failed that test. You--It would have been kinder to put a bullet in his brain."

"You are in no position to throw stones," Natasha snapped.

"Aren't I? Yeah, I had a knee-jerk reaction, I tried to punch him, it was stupid, I'm not going to do it again. Even if I was, was I the _only_ one who heard Clint tell you he'd _let me?_ And how does one punch equate with making someone else think they got someone _killed?"_ Jim raised shaking hands to cover his face. "You're fucking lucky he didn't get himself _killed_ after that."

"I know." Ethan spoke into a tense silence, words heavy with guilt and regret. "I was trying to protect my wife the only way I knew how. I wasn't thinking about Clint then, I wasn't--" He looked away, looked down at his hands. "You have no idea how much I regret how things happened then. I apologized to Clint for it, years ago, we--he forgave me, I think. What do you want me to do?"

"There isn't anything _to_ do. It's old news for you, and Clint, and it's not my business. But I just found out about it, so you're just going to have to deal with me being fucking _pissed._ God. Tony, please tell me you have something I can beat the shit out of."

"I think I might have a punching bag or three you can use," Tony replied drily, pausing to take one last sip of his coffee before waving his fingers in a 'follow me' gesture.

~~~

"So," Tony said into a pause in Jim's hitting the punching bag in front of him. "This Captain Fuller of yours, he sounds like--"

"--a complete asshat. I've hated the guy for more than a decade," he added and slammed his fist into the bag full force, making it sway.

Tony had no doubts as to whose face was on that bag in Jim's mind, not now that the first wild rush of anger had passed. "Take it he didn't like Clint, either." 

That dragged a bitter laugh out of Jim. "Fuck no. Hated Brian Gamble, tried to get me to turn against him back then. That's what." He stopped, seeming unable to finish.

"You want to take Clint back to LA with you, and me, tomorrow? Rub his nose in it?" Tony asked, trying to deflect, and god, was this what Phil meant?

 _"Fuck,_ yes."

"Good. I'll get Clint to wear his combat gear, make sure everyone recognizes him...it'll be awesome."

"Tony?" Jim wrapped his arms around the punching bag and let himself sag against it.

"Yeah?"

"You're awesome."

Tony felt an evil grin of anticipation slide across his features just as JARVIS broke in with an "I'm sorry to intrude upon your plans to take over the world, sir, but you did ask me to inform you if and when Steve Rogers returned to the Tower."

"Steve's back?" Tony yelped, then blushed as Jim gave him an odd look. "Captain America."

"Ah." Jim leaned hard on the bag, letting his knees collapse against it before straightening. The tape around his hands unraveled as he picked at it, and he wrapped it in a loose knot as he stooped to pick up his mostly empty water bottle. "I'd like to meet him."

"Looks like you'll get your chance."

Steve was alone when they got back to the communal floor, half-eaten muffin in hand and duffel bag on the floor by his feet.

"Hey, you're back. What happened? I thought you were going to find the America you'd missed, take the Great American Road Trip, you know, I wasn't expecting you back for--"

"I tried," Steve interrupted, voice soft, rough. The muffin slowly disintegrated under his fingers as he picked at it, crumbs scattering across the counter. "I got--it doesn't matter, all I could see was the streets of New York, the destruction, and I couldn't--I turned around, been helping people on the relief crews since--I don't know. It doesn't matter. Site manager threw me off the teams, told me to get some sleep, and I figured I might as well come back here instead of take up a hotel room someone else might need."

"Huh." Tony didn't say anything else, just stood there looking, taking in the sight of Steve covered in sweat and dust, soot and grease, like Clint had been the night before but infinitely worse. Just what had they had Steve _doing_ out there?

"Sir?" Jim came up behind him, making Tony flinch and Steve look over tiredly, numbly. "Jim Street, I used to work with Clint a long time ago. It's a long story, we can tell you once you've gotten some rest. It's an honor to meet you."

Tony saw the perfect salute from the corner of his eye, the absent-minded nod of respect Steve returned before Jim removed himself from the room, heading down the hallway and ostensibly to find a shower. "So. No road trip. At least, not right now."

"America will still be there when the relief work is done." It would have sounded clicheed, rehearsed, coming from anyone else, but the words fell naturally from Steve's lips.

"Now _that's_ Captain America." Tony could have said it loud and brash and prideful, but didn't, instead making it low and heartfelt, a secret safe kept between them. "What happened to the peanut gallery?" he asked finally, when it seemed like Steve wasn't going to say anything else.

"I wanted to talk to you alone." Steve glanced up, still mangling what little muffin he had left; the pile of crumbs beneath his hands had grown to a small mountain.

"About?" Tony raised both eyebrows in invitation.

"I didn't just leave because--I came back because I owe you an apology. I was wrong. You're so much more than a suit of armor, Tony, you took that missile where it wouldn't hurt _us_ without a second thought even though you knew it was a one-way trip and I--I had to give the order, damnit." What remained of the muffin became a squashed lump between his fingers, purple smearing his skin where the blueberries had burst. "I gave Black Widow the order to close the portal."

This wasn't an apology, and Tony knew better than to try and laugh it off, try and deflect it. They'd all been too conscientious of Clint's issues to be able to turn a blind eye to their own. "We aren't soldiers, Steve. You are, Clint was in the past, but the rest of us. We aren't soldiers. That doesn't mean we don't fight wars. That we don't know about duty and sacrifice and...Look, we all fought in Phil's name. The two of us may have thought him dead when he wasn't, but." 

"That's not. Tony." Steve was looking at him now, an odd look in his eyes, mouth turned grim at the corner. "Tell me you didn't do it just to prove me wrong."

"I did it because it was a _nuclear missile_ headed for _Manhattan._ I did it because I was the only one who _could."_ He shook his head and let out a huff of laughter. "I thought _I_ was arrogant, and here's _Captain America_ thinking I stopped a nuclear attack because he might have hurt my feelings. What is this world coming to?"

Steve blinked at him, a blank look on his face.

"Yes, Steve, I'm teasing. What can I say? I'm a superhero, stopping alien invasions at the risk of life and limb is kind of in the job description. I'd really rather it not happen, because I happen to enjoy living, but hey. I'd rather the world still _be_ here for everyone _else_ if saving it winds up killing me. So."

"I'm sorry." And it sounded like it was torn from him, unwilling and necessary.

Tony sighed, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Look. I'll do this once. I _accept,_ okay? I'm sorry for the bottle crack. For--We both said things we shouldn't have, we were both under the influence of Loki's staff. It was part of the big plan. But whatever you need my forgiveness for - what was said in that lab, making the right call even when it could have, maybe _should_ have, killed me - you have it." He waited for a reaction. "Is that why you left?"

 _That_ got a reaction, a bright flush over up Steve's neck and ears and spilling down his cheekbones, a small wounded sound suppressed too late to be unheard.

"Steve."

"I." He swallowed hard, licking his lips and looking off to the side. "I know you're with Pepper, I just. I couldn't take the risk."

"Of what? Pepper's--" Tony stopped, word half-forming his mouth in an o. _'You're an idiot, Stark, for all your vaunted genius you can't even tell when someone's trying to pull your goddamn pigtails.'_

"I didn't want to...get between you. Er, ruin things between you two, I just--"

"Yes, please, get between us, just. Come here," and Tony suited actions to words, crowding up in Steve's personal space, reaching up to cup the back of his head, wound his other arm around a slim waist. The kiss was shocking, tentative, a quick swipe of tongue across lower lip.

Steve jerked away, breathing hard. "Wait, what are you--What about Pepper? I'm not going to be--"

"JARVIS! Call Pepper. Speaker phone, please."

"Certainly sir." 

"Tony!" Steve hissed over the ring of the phone. "What are you--"

"Tony, what is it?" Pepper sounded impatient, but layered over that was worry, anxiety that something else had gone wrong, and Tony heard others in the background excusing her.

"Got a question for you, it's really important, the fate of the world might hinge upon it, really. Oh, and by the way, you're on speaker phone." And Tony could hear his own broad grin in his voice.

"And what's that?" Now Tony could hear her relief, and could only hope that he and Steve would one day be as responsive to one another. "Hang on, hang on, let me get behind a closed door--there, go on, what did you need to--"

"Mind if I kiss Steve?"

"Tony--Kiss Steve? I--Can't you wait until I get home?" The request was plaintive, close to begging, and unmistakably aching with want.

Steve's blush then was _gorgeous,_ bleeding through the dust and grime, and he ducked his head, hand going to the back of his neck in an instinctive "Aww, shucks, ma'am" gesture.

"Opportunity knocked, Pepper! When opportunity knocks, you have to seize the moment!"

"Oh, god." Steve whimpered.

"He's there, isn't he? Steve, honey, don't worry about us. We've just been waiting for you to get more comfortable before making a move, that's all."

"But--" Steve looked up, eyes wide.

Tony tried to look inviting rather than over-eager and intimidating.

"Three?"

That made him shrug. "Clint's with Phil and Natasha, and he and Ethan spent the night together and nobody seems either mad or giving anyone up. It's not commonplace, but it's not unheard of either. And hey, you were in the war, damnit. You should know better than to--"

"No, it's just. I never--and _Captain America,_ I'm supposed to be--"

Tony stopped him the best way he knew how, covering Steve's mouth with his own, tasting sweat and dust and anxiety as he licked his way inside. He felt more than heard the low groan against his chest, powerful hands coming up to clutch at his hips, and kept the kiss going until he had to pull back, breathless. "You're supposed to be a beacon of courage and freedom, and if being happy with the person or people you love at your side isn't making an example of yourself, I don't want to know what would be."

There was a small feminine growl from Pepper, and then a "Tony's right, Steve. We can be as public or as private as you're ready for, and we'll go as slow as you need it, but don't hold back on us because that's what you think the public wants from you."

Steve was panting into Tony's shoulder, shaking.

"Wait, I never--You do want this, right? I know you said you didn't want to ruin things between me and Pepper, and I think it's obvious we both want you, and it's obvious to _me_ that at least--Do you want Pepper in this equation? I don't want to just--"

"Tony, shut up," Steve muttered into his skin. "I left because I couldn't figure it out, not because I." Tony could feel the swallow all the way down. "There was a _reason_ the only stories ever told about me and a dame involved Peggy Carter. Just. Give me a little time, I haven't gotten to know Pepper half as--"

"As slow as you need us to, Steve," and the sympathy and patience in Pepper's disembodied voice made Steve shiver, and suddenly he was all but dead weight in Tony's arms.

"I think we need to put any more negotiations on hold. This guy needs some sleep."

"Our bed, Tony." 

"Is there anywhere else? Don't answer that." Tony let Steve's bulk distract him from the unfamiliar, and almost painfully pleasant warmth suffusing him, the knowledge that he was actually getting _everything_ shoved to the back of his mind in favor of taking care of an exhausted, half-asleep supersoldier. "I'll see you later, Pepper."

"Love you, Tony, Steve. Sleep well."

~~~

Phil didn't mean to fall asleep again, wanted to stay awake and soak in the heavy presence of his partner, his lover, but the healing sessions and the fact that Clint himself was asleep conspired against him, dragging him into thankfully peaceful slumber until Clint shook himself awake, dazed and bleary eyed.

"Hey." There were times Phil hated normally going from dead asleep to wide awake; this was not one of them.

Clint wouldn't meet his gaze, just swallowed hard and made as if to roll out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Phil worked hard to make it curious, non-confrontational, and got a flicker of eye contact for the trouble.

"Need to make a phone call." Clint's voice broke at the end, making him clear his throat. He shivered Phil's arm down off his shoulder.

Phil's heart broke at the rejection, at knowing what was coming, and reached out anyways, tugging Clint back down and knowing Clint only bent back to him by choice. "I'll be here when you're done, Clint," he rasped, straining upward to close the distance, steal a soft kiss.

Clint let out a soft moan, braced himself with hands flat on the mattress either side of Phil's head, and let Phil have his mouth until the awkward position made his elbows tremble. He pulled back, breathless. "Love you," came out thickly, hoarse and tear-choked, and Phil knew Clint didn't want to go, didn't want to make this damn phone call, and knew just as well he couldn't stay, couldn't avoid it without--

"Love you, Clint. I'll be here." Phil managed to hold back the choked off sob until Clint had gone, the door sliding shut behind him.

"JARVIS?"

~~~

_Sir?_

Tony paused in his work as the message window popped up on his tablet, the hand in Steve's hair pausing mid-stroke. "It's all right, JARVIS, he's not about to wake up. At least, not for another couple of hours, not without reason." Memories threatened to swamp him: half-dragging Steve to the room he was sharing with Pepper until the master suite upstairs was repaired, and into the bathroom; getting them both stripped down to skin and dirt, quiet reassurances of "Just getting you clean, you'll sleep better, no ulterior motives, I promise," as Steve blushed under careful hands, sympathetic eyes; hot water turning dark, painting Steve's skin alternately white and grey and gold as the grime of the invasion rinsed off on a sea of soap suds. Shaking his head clear, he pushed them back, locked them down. "What's up?"

Pepper watched him from the other side of the bed, eyes curious and concerned. Tony shook his head at her, just tilted his chin at Steve's sprawled form between them.

"Agent Barton is awake and heading for his room. He intends to make at least one of the phone calls you asked him to make."

"Thanks. I'll take care of it." The tablet found its resting place on the bedside table. "Or, well, I'll find a few people who can help me take care of it, anyhow."

"JARVIS, tell me if he needs me," Pepper's soft words followed him out of the bedroom.

~~~

"This is gonna suuuuuck," Clint moaned to himself, swinging his arms back and forth over his chest and stretching his neck, as if preparing for a sparring session.

The folder, its single sheet of plain printer paper exposed, lay accusingly on the dresser.

"You're an _Avenger,_ you idiot, you don't back down," he mumbled, and picked up his phone with shaky fingers. 

He had to dial four times before he managed to get all the numbers in correctly, managed to not hit _end_ in a knee-jerk panic, and then--then. Three rings.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi, this is. You aren't going to--Sanborn?" Clint slapped himself in the forehead with his free hand, rolled his eyes. It took every drop of self-discipline he had not to hang up, not to throw the phone across the room in frustration.

"You're kidding me." It was emotionless, and the silence dragged out until that disembodied voice added a disbelieving, "James?"

"Well--then, yeah, Clint Barton. Um. I just wanted--" What the hell _did_ he want?

"I saw you on tv. Fighting those things."

"I figured. Tony said--" _'Tony said he didn't want more undercover ops stabbing me in the back, but he never said what he wanted_ me _to do about it.'_

"I guess it doesn't surprise me, that you'd be out there in spandex and--"

Clint could have kissed him for the opening. "It's not spandex, it's neoprene!" he yelped, interrupting the usual Robin Hood spiel.

"Suuure. You're just the kind of crazy fucker to see a difference," and Sanborn was lucky Clint could hear the tease in it through the pain in his chest.

"Spandex doesn't offer any kind of protection, you jackass," he shot back. "Listen. Listen, I just wanted--what happened back then, I know I was." He licked his lips, trying to steady himself. "I know I was fucked up. That wasn't--I was coming off a really massively fucked up op somewhere else I can't even tell you about, and I couldn't--I'm sorry. I know you tried. I know--" and ran out of words, ran out of throat to fit around them.

The silence dragged on so long that Clint almost got enough control back to say _Hello?,_ say _Are you still there?,_ in case the line had dropped, before Sanborn spoke again. "You know, my wife told me I should call you and find out if something had happened to you. I mean, to make you - I really did try to be--"

"I know. I--look, I wasn't in any shape to be. I'm sorry." What else can he say? What else _is there_ to say? "I'm...guessing you figured this part out already, but I was undercover at the time. I'm not really supposed to tell you that, but. Face. TV. Not much I can do about it now."

"Yeah, I figured. And you still hold the record for IED disposals."

"What can I say? I like being the best." Pride of a job well done sweeps over him, relaxing tense shoulders, calms twitching fingers. "How's the wife? You mentioned you wanted a son, but I didn't--" _\--know how to finish that sentence._

"Gorgeous and deserves better than me, obviously. Alex is two, now. How's yours? Kid would be four now, right? Five?"

Words wouldn't come, breath choking him on a faint barely-there whine.

"Ja-Barton?"

"I don't. I don't have a kid. Don't have a wife, either."

Sanborn's breathing turned heavy, a rumbly little growl of building anger.

"Undercover. I couldn't exactly--I have two boyfriends and a girlfriend--well, _then_ I had Nat and Phil, Ethan's only been a couple of days--"

"Just how much of that tour was a lie, damnit? Was everything--everything but your goddamned bomb collection, your godforsaken _record_ just another lie? Do anything, say anything to seem fucking _normal?"_

Clint jerked the phone away from his ear reflexively, stunned--not that he hadn't expected it, not that he couldn't still hear the words, hear the roar of well-earned rage and suspicion and it wasn't even, wasn't--

Vision whited out at the edges and he sat down hard as the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then the phone was gone, strong hand prying clenched fingers off of it, a _"This is Tony Stark, I don't know who you are and I really don't care, trust me on that"_ growing vaguely distant, strong arms pulling at him, and he turned, fighting until Ethan's _"shhh, beautiful, we have you"_ gets caught up in _"it's just us, just me, remember"_ from Jim on his other side, and he let himself sag, caught between them and shaking.

"Tony's taking care of it," Ethan whispered, lips against the curve of his ear.

"N-no, he shouldn't--shouldn't have to, I need--" His eyes shut against the moving shadows, mind turning it into night time in Baghdad and running through the streets, and he whimpered, huddling against Ethan's chest, hiding from the memories of insurgents dragging Eldridge, dragging his _teammate_ off, of making that shot that he'd had to--couldn't protect any more, never could, and history unspooled itself.

_"Ready for second det?"_

_"Ready."_

_"Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole! Fire in the--"_

_"Wait wait wait--Hold on a second! God damn it, I forgot my gloves down there."_

"No. Damn it, he shouldn't--" Clint pushed away, shoved, slithered out from between Ethan and Jim, grasp on reality tenuous as he slammed out of his own room and stalked after Tony, ran the last few steps and swiped the phone from startled fingers, Tony's threats of endless ruin echoing in his ears. "Sanborn! I _gave_ you-- why didn't you fucking push the damn button?! Why, damn it?! I knew you wanted me dead, hell _I_ wanted me dead, you think I didn't know you wanted it? I fucking _handed_ it to you!"

"Oh hell no, damn it!" Tony's voice, sharp, demanding, and there was a body pinning him up against the wall, the phone was gone, another voice, lighter, ice and steel with _"This is Pepper Potts, who's speaking?"_ and his struggles were useless, hands lifting him bodily off the floor, carrying him through another door and wrapping him in a tangle of limbs on an overstuffed--

Couch?

~~~

 _'Notthetimenotthetimenotthetime,'_ Jim's mind chanted over and over again, half wrapped around Clint's twitching body and unable to look up, to risk seeing Ethan on Clint's other side for fear of the rage churning so close to the surface.

 _"You're fucking lucky he didn't get himself_ killed _after that."_

It wouldn't help now, anyways, not with Clint mostly unaware, eyes wide and unseeing, Tony in the background going, "Pepper, wake Steve up, bring him in here, we're all--JARVIS, get Bruce up here. It's Avengers and Friends movie night, Natasha and Phil can sit this one out, actually, I'd prefer they did, but everyone else's attendance is mandatory."

"What about me?" Ethan rasped, cutting into the quiet litany of _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"_ he'd been murmuring against Clint's neck.

"You're staying." Jim flinched, hearing Tony's snapping over his own.

"He's not connecting you to--" Tony continued, pausing significantly instead of filling in possibly triggery details, not when they all _knew._ "And recent events are recent."

"The hell?" Clint's voice was raw, gravelly, like he'd been screaming, and Jim supposed he might as well have been as he held on, pinning one arm down.

"You back with us?" Tony asked, but it was pointless, obvious that Clint was tracking, had snapped back to the here-and-now.

"You can let go now," Clint muttered, pushing against the arms and legs holding him down.

"Yeah, no, I don't think so," Jim grumbled.

"It was five years ago," Clint snapped, but he subsided, sinking back into the leather and resting his cheek against Ethan's hair.

"Five years for you," Ethan rumbled hoarsely. _"We_ just found out. You'll have to deal with us being a little overprotective for a while."

Jim wanted to laugh, wanted to be _sick_ at the echo of his own statement, and knew, somehow, that nothing was going to come of his anger.

"Do you _really_ want to be alone right now?"

Clint dragged Jim and Ethan half-upright in his bid to see, and Jim twisted around to see Steve listing heavily against the door, free arm wrapped over Pepper's shoulder. Steve's eyes were on Clint, but Jim could see the knowledge in his eyes, the empathy under the exhaustion, and couldn't help but realize _'He knows what it is to have no one. What it is to lose everyone, everything.'_ It hit like a fist in the gut that Tony, that Bruce--Natasha--none of them were strangers to walking that edge between suicide and self-sacrifice.

Jim couldn't even say he himself was a stranger to it, not after--

Clint's wordless grunt broke the silence, and he twisted back around, settling back on the couch without answering, but that was answer enough, and Jim felt Clint's shudder ripple through his own body at Ethan's quiet murmurs, the startled squeak as Steve collapsed on the couch on Ethan's far side. Pepper simply followed Steve down, already tucked under his arm as she was.

"JARVIS?"

"I'm right here, Tony," Bruce said from the doorway, knowledge and understanding written in the careful neutrality of his expression. "I think the _Road to..._ series would be good."

"Queue them up, you heard the man." Tony rounded the couch and tucked himself between Jim and the end, warm wiry presence an unexpected comfort.

Jim didn't know where Bruce had situated himself, just felt the distant impact of yet another body on the monstrosity Tony called a couch, not caring past the opening credits for _Road to Singapore,_ past the feeling of Clint's too fast breathing slowing, the occasional brush of his hand against Clint's, against Ethan's.

No one tried to move when Steve fell asleep, half slumped against Ethan and squashing them all farther back in the cushions; no one cared when Clint followed a few minutes later, soft reassurances following him.

The movie was half over before Jim had to move, had to carefully untangle himself from Clint and Ethan, and returned a few minutes later to find Tony had taken his place, Clint having moved enough to rest on Tony's shoulder. The rest of the afternoon followed the same pattern, each time someone next to Clint needed to move, each time someone not needed the reassurance of touch, they switched places, Clint waking only enough to open his eyes, as if to assure himself, _"yes, I know you"_ before going back to sleep.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm hungry," Pepper said as the end credits to _Road to Morocco_ started. JARVIS obligingly muted the screen.

"I'm not cooking tonight," Ethan put in immediately, before anyone could ask. "I vote for take out."

"We can do that. I'm in the mood for sushi," Tony suggested.

"I don't know if--" Steve looked dubious at the thought of raw fish.

"They have cooked fish and things, too, Cap, don't you worry, there will be plenty you like. But you have to at least try the good stuff, okay? Anyone else have objections?"

Ethan nudged Clint in the shoulder a few times; he'd somehow ended up back in the same position he'd started in, not that anyone would have denied him. Not after--Jim cut that thought short. "Hey, Clint."

"Mmm." Clint grunted and hunched his shoulders, trying to hide his face between Ethan's shoulder and the back of the couch. "Go 'way, sleeping now."

That got him another poke. "You missed lunch. We're ordering dinner. Any objections to sushi?"

"Lots. Tash knows. Leme 'lone."

"I have taken the liberty of informing Agent Romanoff of your plans sir, and have added appropriate orders for her, Phil and Clint to whatever you care to add."

"Thanks, JARVIS," Ethan put in before Tony could.

An hour later, platters of sushi, sashimi, and various other dishes were spread over every horizontal surface in the room, hands and arms getting tangled as everyone reached for their favorites and dismissing any apologies offered.

"Clint?" Ethan nudged him again, his own plate resting on the knee Clint hadn't claimed. "Dinner," he prompted when Clint's eyes opened to mere slits.

"Mmmhmm." Clint shifted enough to give Ethan more freedom of motion, but made no move to serve himself.

"You know, if he's that tired--" Jim started, unsure how he felt about Clint's continued attachment to Ethan; Clint'd been all but plastered to the older man's side most of the afternoon, and since _Road to Utopia_ had been paused in favor of dinner, Jim had moved to one of the matching chairs and had all too clear a view.

"Nah, I got it." Ethan wouldn't let him finish, his voice carefully casual as he picked up a piece of salmon roll and dipped it in the small dish of soy to one side of his plate. "Clint, here. Eat." And he held the roll in easy reach, a few inches from Clint's lips.

Jim watched--they all watched, helplessly curious--as Clint stared blankly, gave a long blink and sighed, letting a deep shudder wrack his body. Then, his head bent and he took the slice of roll from Ethan's fingers, licking it back into his mouth, and chewed slowly, swallowing; he turned, hiding his face against Ethan's shoulder, and Jim had to look away, tried not to hear the murmurs of _"beautiful"_ and _"safe here with us"_ and _"love you",_ tried not to notice the layers of tension and defenses that seemed to strip away from Clint with each iteration.

Clint was taking another piece of sushi from Ethan's fingers when Jim dared look up again, body utterly relaxed; this time though, he licked the traces of soy and a few grains of rice from Ethan's fingers, giving a low, nearly inaudible grumbling moan as Ethan wrapped his free hand around the back of his neck. Jim could see where his skin turned white under the pressure, but it was disconcertingly obvious Clint wanted it, was capable of freeing himself in an instant, but only shivered under the touch and slithered off the leather cushion to kneel at Ethan's feet. Ethan's hand shifted, fingers ruffling through short hair, curving over the back of Clint's skull as he pressed cheekbone to knee, wound an arm around Ethan's calf.

A wordless protest caught on Jim's lips as he watched Ethan continue feeding Clint bit by bit, now a piece of vegetable tempura, now a piece of _Toro_ nagiri, Clint licking his fingers clean after each bite and looking peaceful and blissed out; a quick glance around the room showed Tony unsurprised, a knowing smile quirking one corner of his mouth, Pepper wearing an expression of both sympathy and satisfaction; Bruce looked much the same as Pepper, with an underlying wistfulness, though Jim couldn't tell exactly what for. Steve just blushed faintly, smiled a little and said nothing.

Jim met Ethan's gaze across the coffee table, over Clint's head; there was a _'trust me'_ expression in Ethan's eyes, in the lines of his face, as close to begging as Jim guessed Ethan would get, at least with him, and Jim felt the last of his protective rage die out. Whatever had happened between them, Clint trusted Ethan with everything, _everything_ now, enough to be completely without defenses in a room full of relative strangers, and someone who'd tried to kill him once-upon-a-time. Part of that had to be that there had been such pain and betrayal between them before, even if only through ignorance. Clint at Ethan's feet wasn't something Ethan had asked for, expected, and would never be taken for granted; it was accepted as the gift it was, of trust and vulnerability, and had to be and would be earned constantly.

Not something he'd normally pick up on, but this wasn't normal, hadn't been since the invasion, hadn't been where Clint was concerned since that fucked over bank job nine years before, and Jim hadn't been able to think about much other than Clint, and Ethan's fucked up version of witness protection and its end results, all day.

Ethan didn't quite manage to hide the abject relief at Jim's tiny accepting nod before he turned back to his own dinner, snatched between bites offered to Clint. 

The rest of the evening went much the same, Clint at Ethan's feet, JARVIS playing _Road to..._ movies, the soft skritch of pencil-on-paper as Steve sketched in the flickering half-light of the room.

Jim followed Tony and Pepper into the kitchen, helping carry dirty dishes and leftovers to stow in the fridge; someone would eat them long before they'd go bad.

"So," Tony started, stealing a piece of salmon from one of the delivery boxes. "What's bothering you?" The refrigerator door closed at the bump of a hip, and he popped the raw fish in his mouth.

Jim laughed weakly, half collapsing back against the counter. "I don't, I don't even know where to start. Is he--is that normal? I mean, it's not that I--"

"Normal is relative. For Clint?" Tony shrugged. "It's probably a comfort to him to be able to trust someone enough to just...put himself in their care, whether that's Ethan or someone else." The coffee pot beeped at him questioningly, and he glanced over with a _"yes, yes, I know, coffee. Thank you. Here, let's set you up."_

Jim mulled that over, avoiding Pepper's eyes and rubbing his lower lip with one thumb. "And the rest of us?" He shook his head, unsure of how to ask, what he was asking in the first place. "I mean, that kind of thing isn't--I wouldn't have expected him to, just."

"He trusted us," Pepper said softly. "He trusted us enough to know we wouldn't hurt him, we wouldn't--cheapen what he has with Ethan, because that kind of trust isn't easy to come by. Not even just the kind that lets him let us see him like that, to just be there. That kind of vulnerability...it's rare, and precious, and beautiful." Her eyes were wide, shining.

"What you have to remember," Tony started, offhand as he poured water into the coffee pot's tank to an accompanying whistle, "is that what the public hears about BDSM lifestyles and practices is nearly always just plain _wrong."_

"And you know this because you've done it?"

"When it comes to sex, there's very little I haven't tried at least once."

"Tony." Pepper arched an eyebrow at him.

"What, Pepper, it's not as if he can't look it up in the tabloids for the last twenty-five years." Tony gestured with an empty coffee mug. "It's not as if I were discreet about it."

"Tony, you're rarely, if ever, discreet about _anything."_ Pepper's fond glare was reproachful.

"Discreet is boring." Tony reached out towards Jim, pointing pinky and ring finger at him from the bottom of the mug. "To answer your question, yes, I have. I've tried both sides, actually. Subspace - the technical term for the state of mind Clint's been in since Ethan started feeding him - is...not something I'm capable of reaching, not really. Dominant's fun, on occasion. I think Ethan's a lot more suited for that kind of thing than me."

"So--this, this relationship they have, it's...healthy? I mean--" He stopped as Tony held up his empty hand, palm flat toward him in the traditional signal for _stop._

"I've only seen a little more than you have, but what you saw? Is about as healthy as a dominant/submissive relationship gets. You have to understand," Tony paused, licked his lips. "A dominant's role isn't...just to give his or her submissive what they want the submissive to have. That's just a really fucked-up assumption. It's abusive. That's not what's going on between Clint and Ethan. Ethan--his job is to read Clint, be absolutely responsive to Clint's needs and provide for them. Clint's the one in control, because if Ethan's not giving him that, Clint will walk away."

"And if he doesn't?" The question stuck in his throat.

"Clint has two other lovers and a houseful of friends who are too damn tuned into him to let Ethan get away with so much as breathing on him wrong."

"And me, sir."

"And JARVIS, of course." Tony laughed and gave a sketchy bow in apology.

"I'm included in that houseful of friends, right?"

"You're damn right you are. You said you were staying. I'm holding you to that."

Jim rubbed his face with both hands, feeling some unknown tension unknot itself. Clint was...not okay, but he had a lot more support here, now, than he'd ever had in LA, ever had with just _him_ ('should _have had with him,'_ his subconscious whispered), and he was just a part of it. Just grateful to be allowed to be part of it, and... "Is. Would it be--rude to talk to him about this? I mean--Ethan--"

"As long as you don't make their relationship into something deviant or shameful, I don't think they'd take it as anything more than concern for a friend," Pepper offered.

Jim let out a low groan, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "I never thought--I've got a second chance with him, _nine fucking god-damned years,_ and--"

A strong hand clasped his shoulder and squeezed gently. "You're in good company. We're all dealing with unexpected second chances." Jim could read sympathy in Tony's eyes before he dropped his hand, turning to watch the coffee pot and tapping fingers on the counter.

"He thinks it's just going to blow up again."

"You'll just have to prove him wrong then, won't you?" Pepper smiled. "Come on, Tony can't survive without his caffeine fix, but the others are probably getting suspicious by now."

"Toodles." Tony raised his mug in toast, and Jim nodded, letting Pepper usher him back towards the rec room.

"I guess we're having a slumber party," Jim said, finding the furniture had been shoved back against the walls, leaving the center of the room a broad expanse of carpet. Ethan was still sitting on the couch, Clint curled around him still looking spaced out; one of Ethan's hands pet him idly while Steve and Bruce built a nest of blankets on the floor.

Pepper took one look and glanced back at Jim. "Go change, and grab your pillows."

"Yes, ma'am," Jim replied, giving her a half-serious, half-mocking salute and backed off, turning for his room. _'LA SWAT to superhero slumber parties. What is my life coming to?'_ But he couldn't help but grin at the ridiculousness of it, or how welcome it all was.

~~~

The sushi wasn't so much a meal as a distraction borne of necessary sustenance, Natasha doing most of the serving, tearing open packets of soy and stirring Phil's with wasabi just the way he liked it. Neither one spoke outside of _"please pass the--"_ too caught up in their own thoughts, until Phil pushed his tray away one-handed. More was left on his plate than Natasha had expected, far more than she’d hoped.

"What is it?" Natasha glanced up at Phil from her own meal, all but twitching at the unsettling tension between them.

"It's been four days."

"And?" Another bite of caterpillar roll vanished between her lips.

"He's only been to see me three times. It's--" He wouldn't look at her, only down at the sheet pooled at his waist, or off to the side at the delivery boxes. "I know," and he stopped to take a deep breath. "I'm just a reminder for him. All he can see is _it's all his fault,_ and _he's the one who let Loki on the 'carrier,_ but I can't help--"

"You can't help missing him."

Phil swallowed hard. "I can't help feeling like I'm _losing_ him." It came out in a hoarse whisper.

"We." Natasha heard the dread in her own voice, the unexpected pain she hadn't let herself acknowledge. "Not just you. Like _we're_ losing him. I." She had to stop and turn her head away, hiding behind her hair; it wasn't something she'd done in a long time, not in front of Phil, not like she was ashamed, embarrassed. "I don't--I made a mistake with him, I didn't know what Jim was. What he--"

"Jim's not another Ethan."

Natasha laughed sadly, eyes bright and bitter when she turned them back to Phil. "No. Ethan's enough of a threat on his own."

"I thought we'd agreed--"

That got a reluctant nod. "I did. _We_ did. Clint needs it, and he can't accept it from us. And at least Ethan's _here._ Not like Erik, like--" She let out a frustrated snarl. "Did we have a choice? Did we really? Clint doesn't do well hobbled, he never has. We can't keep him if he doesn't want to stay." Fingers brushed her jaw, ran down her neck in a caress.

"Ethan's not going to take him away from us, it's just not--"

"If he had reacted any other way--" She couldn't help panting through the words, couldn't help the threat underlying them.

"Natasha." His hand curled around her, tugging her to face him. "You can't go killing all our allies."

Something inside gave way at the reminder, at the helplessness, and she tore herself away. "I can't, I can't do this, not if we lose him. He's our heart, our fire, and I've never been--"

"Never been what, Natasha," and suddenly Phil's voice was hard, harsh as winter blizzard and twice as cold. "You're not just Clint's lover, you're mine too. That's not conditional on whether he stays or leaves."

"And if I can't be that anymore?"

Phil stared sadly at her, carefully reaching out again, the tips of his fingers brushing against her hair before daring to try for skin. "You act like I don't know, _okashka._ Like Clint and I don't know you don't see sex the same way we do. Don't you know--you don't have to? That it's not what we're about, it's not--I don't--" _It's not worth losing you,_ she could hear, even if he left the words unspoken. _I don't want to lose you._

She couldn't help the tremors, couldn't help the breath stuck in her throat at the thought of failing this man, of not being enough for him, to keep him safe, _all_ of him, mind and heart and body, when she already had. "I just want us to go back to _normal."_ She flinched at the word, barked out a harsh laugh. "Normal, like any of us, any of this is _normal."_

"Normal is boring." It was the same bland, mild tone he used every day, that same unthreatening everyman voice beneath which, she'd learned, lurked a wealth of hidden meaning. "He'll come back to us. He will, he just needs time, and a chance to gain some distance."

"From us," she whispered, missing Clint like she'd miss her arm, her lungs, her fucking heart.

"From what happened," Phil corrected her, gently stressing the words. "From his own memories."

Natasha said nothing; there was nothing to say, nothing that Phil would let pass without some inane platitude.

"Can you give me two days?"

"For?" The question was accompanied by an arched eyebrow, a questioning look beneath a fringe of red.

"I asked Tony to take Clint and Jim back to LA for a day or two. I'll be on my feet and out of here by the time they get back," Phil explained, voice shaking at the last.

Natasha froze.

"I know you thought--"

"Fury said it would be at least a week. If you were lucky."

"Fury is a lying liar who lies. Because he has to." Phil dropped his gaze. "Or because an old friend asks him to."

It was a white lie, insurance, because there was never any guarantee that mutant powers would accelerate healing as much as they thought, as they hoped, because there was no guarantee that all the maybe-fatal damage would get _caught--_

Natasha shut her eyes, put her tray on the table, wrapped her arms around her stomach. She understood, now, why Tony, why _Steve_ had reacted so badly, the outrage, the sense of betrayal-- "Were you going to tell us?"

"There was no guarantee." But she knew that. "And I wanted--I didn't want to give you and Clint false hope. I couldn't afford to." 

His hand came in her line of sight; she flinched and danced out of reach, still wrapped around herself and cursing herself for telegraphing, for loving this man enough to not lie. Not with her words or her eyes or her body, not even when--

"Tasha."

"Hope was all we _had,"_ she whispered, and she could hear Fury's voice on her comm unit, the _"They're here. They called it."_ with its lie underneath, the lie she could hear because--because she could. Because the Red Room--

She shook her head, clearing it of thought patterns she refused to follow. It had been a lie because she'd wanted it to be a lie, because she'd refused to believe it as truth until she'd seen Phil's body for herself, and by then Phil had been hooked to machines and IVs and SHIELD's touch healer, sweat dripping down his face, plastering long hair to his bare back, softly glowing hands wrapped around Phil's neck.

"Come here, Tasha," Phil asked, no, begged, in that same soft modulated tone, that voice that called her home. He was struggling to lift the tray off his lap one-handed; it was too unwieldy, too unbalanced, and she moved it herself, sliding it next to her own. "If all you have is hope, then hold onto it, and help me hold onto mine." His hand caught her wrist, hold questioning, ready to let go at the slightest tug.

When she didn't, when she didn't pull away or freeze in that same stillness Clint had, but was a version wholly her own, Phil pulled, just a little. Enough for her to register the request. "Please?" The catch in his voice made her tremble. "Clint's only been down here three times, but at least he slept two of them. Let me hold him. You haven't--"

"I should have been there," she found herself saying, found herself unable to stop. "I should have--You're my, you're our handler, you don't, you're not supposed to be in the front lines--"

"And I'm not supposed to take on an enemy without backup if it's available, and it was. There were agents I could have asked for help, and I didn't." The words were bland, insistent, refusing her blame. "It would have cost me nothing but time for you to free Clint. And that was unacceptable. But it was _my_ choice, _okashka,_ mine. Not yours, not Clint's."

"You shouldn't have had to make the choice."

"Natasha." Phil's grip on her wrist firmed, went from request to demand. "I _cannot_ choose to do anything other than protect you and Clint as best I can. The two of you come before any op, before my own personal safety. You know that. You and Clint are the same way." There was a pause, and Natasha could hear him taking a deep breath, and another, feel it from the sway of Phil's hand on her. "I'm just the one that got hurt this time."

She tried to speak, tried to answer, and found her lips unable to form the sounds, wrap around the shape of consonant and vowel.

"Natasha. _Okashka,_ please." Phil tugged on her arm again, still not insistent, nothing to match his grip though she could feel the twitch in fatigued muscles. "Let me hold you?"

It was too much; she couldn't make him ask again. He shouldn't have had to ask at all, and that was another thorn in her heart as she turned, fear and regret and love all naked on her face. The bed's controls were heavy and strange in her hands, and it took her a moment to focus on the buttons, to lower the bed back to flat horizontal. Then she was climbing up on the edge, unfettered emotion making her clumsy, ungainly instead of granting her normal grace, but that didn't matter. Phil had already moved, was always shoved over to the left, so his good side was left free to hold Clint, hold her, and she curled up in the space offered, tucked under his good arm.

"He's going to come back to us, _okashka,_ you'll see," he whispered, running tired fingers along her arm.

"I miss him," she whispered back, choked off and hoarse. "I miss him so much..." She let herself cry until she couldn't, let her breath settle, consciously slow to a normal sleeping pattern, and let Phil pretend she was asleep when he asked JARVIS to send someone down to put their sushi away.


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up in a tangle of blankets and warm bodies was momentarily disconcerting; not the puppy pile (because Steve had done that all too often with the Howling Commandoes just to keep warm) but the fact that he was _comfortable,_ not half-frozen, or sore from sleeping on uneven ground. It only took him a moment to remember, to realize that Ethan and Jim had both woken, for all three to pretend Clint's whispered _"sorry, go back to sleep"_ was enough to reassure; a sharp glance over Tony and Pepper's still-sleeping forms and an _"I got this"_ set the other two to grumbling acquiesence as he carefully extricated himself and, scooping up his sketchpad, wandered after Clint.

Wandered slowly, sensing his target needed at least a few minutes to himself, but still. What Pepper had told him about that phone call--

"Here you are," Steve said, trying to make it neutral and only managing to sound more relieved than worried.

Clint looked up from his plate of leftover sushi, one eyebrow raised in askance.

His notebook hitching a little higher under his arm, Steve shrugged sheepishly. "Ethan wanted to come after you. I asked him to let me handle it."

"I don't need a keeper," Clint muttered after swallowing, then licked his fingers absently.

"No, you don't. But I think any of us could use a friend," and it was as close to admitting he'd been riding the same edge of suicide as Clint had as Steve was willing to admit, even in the silent dark of oh-four-hundred hours.

"So, pull up a chair. I don't know how Tony managed to order enough for leftovers after you and Bruce went at it, but there's still some in the fridge," Clint offered, perversely wrapping his left arm around the edge of his plate as if guarding it.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass on the food. Just. Here." Steve's sketchpad hit the table, sliding across noisily under Steve's fingertips.

"Wait, wait. Don't--I don't want to get fish and soy--" Clint didn't bother finishing, just shoved his plate aside, his chair back, and went to the sink, scrubbing his hands clean and drying with paper towels before retaking his seat. The tablet looked small framed in his hands, and Clint looked between the cover and Steve as if trying to determine if he meant it.

"Go on," he said, nodding slightly.

Clint set the tablet flat on the table, carefully opening the cover. "What am I looking for, if anything?"

"You'll know when you see it." Steve rested both forearms on the table, gripping one hand with the other.

That got him a long stare, a twist of Clint's lip, a distracted _"huh."_

Steve watched, silently cataloguing reactions as Clint paged through skylines and landscapes, city scenes, quick sketches of Fury and Hill (with blank-faced pauses at each and every drawing of Coulson), strangers and SHIELD agents too indistinct to identify. Then the shuddery breath at the Chitauri, soldiers and sleds and monstrous eels slicing through the edge of a building, churning portal and the Tesseract beam that powered it; a battered Iron Man leading a swarm, Hulk clinging to the side of a skyscraper, Thor with Mjolnir raised to the sky and surrounded by forks of lightning, quick and violent sketches all.

Clint's fingers hovered over a sketch of himself, crouching down behind a flipped taxi cab and one hand reaching back for an arrow. The angle was bad, but Steve could see enough in a glance down, thought he knew Clint well enough to know he'd stop at seeing himself, could read the memory written in the flicker of Clint's eyes, the _"Captain, it would be my genuine pleasure"_ waiting on his lips. "I'm not an art critic, but you do realize you could show in any gallery in town, right?" he asked instead, thumb rubbing the edge a little, back and forth.

"Keep going."

"Huh. Okay, fine, hide your light under a barrel. Just don't blame me if Tony steals your sketchpads and arranges it for you."

Steve didn't respond, waiting instead for the turn of pages, the tiny grin at Loki, battered and bleeding in the crater Hulk had made with him, Thor taking the caged Tesseract and a cuffed-and-muzzled Loki back to Asgard, Tony in his convertible with Bruce riding shotgun. Then--

Clint froze, the previous page still mostly upright, propped up by one hand. Steve could see the drawing in his mind, didn't need to see past that barrier to know what Clint was looking at: Ethan on the couch, Clint wrapped around Ethan's calf, head tilted up and accepting a bite of something from Ethan's fingers. There was no mistaking the submissiveness in Clint's posture.

"I couldn't ask permission and."

"And?" Clint asked when Steve stopped short, still staring at the unfinished drawing.

Steve looked down at his hands, examining the edges of his fingers, where calluses would be if he ever got them. "I wasn't sure you knew the rest of us were there last night."

"Not unaware so much as didn't give a damn. It's not something I'm ashamed of, if that's what you're asking. Or are you kicking me off the team?"

"Keep going." Steve congratulated himself on keeping his voice steady, even; the look Clint gave him over the top edge of drawing paper told him his bid to hide the hurt and anger at the not-quite-accusation had failed miserably.

At least Clint didn't call him on it. He just followed instructions, letting the mostly vertical sheet flatten to the table and turn to the next page and its attendant sketch, again Ethan and Clint. This one showed Clint lying head-and-shoulders across Ethan's lap, one of Ethan's hands in his hair, the other curling along jaw and neck, outer two fingers brushing the sweet and blissful smile aimed up at him.

Clint glanced up again, asking silently, and at Steve's nod, he turned the page again and stopped, eyes flickering back and forth as he read. A flush pinked his ears, spilled over his cheekbones, crept up his neck a dull red as he finished reading, ducking and rubbing the back of his head. "Finish them, I want them. I don't want--you're welcome to draw if I'm in the public areas, or give permission behind closed doors, but this, I don't want public." He swallowed hard, flipped to stare at the two drawings again, first one, then the other, as if memorizing them, and then closed the tablet gently and slid it back across the table.

"Understood," Steve said, because it was; Clint's submission was intensely personal, private, and just letting the rest of them _see_ was a display of trust that Steve hadn't expected Clint to ever choose to make. Taking the empty seat next to Clint, he spun his sketchpad around and opened it to the last of the edge-worn pages. The last, the very last that was anything other than a blank expanse of white, was filled with writing, and he couldn't help but read it yet again.

_Clint--_

_Watching you and Ethan together was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever had the privilege of seeing. Thank you for your trust._

_Let me know what you want me to do with the drawings. They're yours to keep or destroy or--obviously they aren't finished, but let me know._

_It was an honor to fight beside you in Manhattan. It's more of one to be part of your family._

_Steve_

He'd started it, Tony's chin hooked curiously over his shoulder, and had barely managed to finish before the pad and pencil were stolen so Tony could write his own note of support; after that, it was a foregone conclusion, Ethan looking on indulgently while Clint all but purred in his lap.

_I wish I could let go like that. No teasing, promise - if you need anything, I've got contacts._

_Tony_

Pepper had been practically scandalized, flicking Tony's ear when she read his note, and added a simple, _We love you. You're family. --Pepper_ of her own. She'd handed the pad and paper over to Bruce with a pleased flourish.

_"You're trying to make him cry again, aren't you?"_ Bruce had said softly, shooting Tony a dark look of his own. The _Don't ever think you have to hide this from us. Trust is everything. You have ours. --Bruce_ was punctuated by thick lines beneath _ever_ and _everything._

Jim had been apprehensive, the least comfortable of the seven of them - five, if Ethan and Clint were discounted since they were the topic of discussion. Still, he didn't interfere, made no motions that might be construed as threatening, and seemed open to understanding. Given how close he'd stayed to Clint, his _Brothers in arms if not name or blood. I've got your back any time you need it. --Jim_ wasn't unexpected.

Still. Steve made a mental note to include this sheet with the drawings, once they were finished. It would come as no surprise at all if it were squirreled away in some secret treasure trove somewhere.

Clint's empty plate spiralled lazily across the table, stopping a few inches shy of the opposite edge.

"Good?"

"It's _sushi._ I _ate it._ Of course it's good." The last Clint mumbled into his forearm, chin cushioned on arms crossed on the tabletop. He gave a shivery twitch, muscles in his back jerking him oddly sideways.

"Sore? I know you still have cracked ribs."

"When don't I? Don't answer that. Yeah, sore, sleeping on the floor didn't help 'em any." He stretched his neck out to one side, then the other, eyes still shut, before settling again.

Steve thought about it, just for a moment, more an internal debate over whether he’s trespassing on Ethan’s territory than whether or not his touch would actually be _welcome,_ and then lay a gentle hand on Clint’s shoulder. Clint barely even flinched, thin cotton of t-shirt warm from the skin beneath, and Steve moved his fingers, squeezing softly, always aware of his strength. 

Steve flipped back to the first unfinished drawing with his free hand, more of his attention paid to Clint's shoulders under his fingertips even though he wasn't even looking. It was harder to work one-handed, having to keep the paper still with his wrist and still maintain mobility, and do it all almost absently while his left hand worked knots out of muscle, but he managed.

Beside him, Clint didn't move other than to arch, to press into the touch, let out a low moan, slow shifts of breath, but when Steve's hand moved enough to grab him by the back of his neck, Clint's whole body went rigid.

Steve arched an eyebrow at him curiously.

"Don't go getting any ideas."

A smile tugged at Steve's lips. "The only _ideas_ I have don't include you, don't worry. Right now just trying to make you more comfortable." He paused long enough that Clint's muscles relaxed again, face hidden in the cradle formed by his arms. "It wouldn't be a hardship though, if Ethan weren't around."

Clint went sniper-still under his hand.

"I'm not _asking,_ god. Clint, Ethan's a field operative. I know he's SHIELD's liaison now, but he might not be around when you want or need to let go. And I'm not as innocent as everyone assumes I am."

"Captain America is trained in Dominance and submission." The disbelief was thick in Clint's voice, undulled by the muffled quality from being spoken into the tabletop.

"Among other things. I'm not asking," Steve said again. "I'm just saying _I'm here if you need me and I'm willing to do this for you."_

"No sex," Clint blurted, then flinched at his own words.

Steve snorted out a laugh. "Oh hell no. Tony and Pepper are surprisingly possessive. Tony would kill me, Pepper would kill you, to say nothing of what Phil and Natasha would do..."

"Safer not to go there," Clint grumbled. "I have a harem," and he laughed at the word.

"I don't look good in harem pants. Or belly chains."

Clint rolled his head enough to look up at Steve in disbelief. "You know this for certain."

Steve shrugged, smiling enigmatically.

"Story. When I'm not about to fall asleep." Clint hid his face again, arching his shoulders in silent demand.

Steve just chuckled warmly, set his pencil down across the sketch he'd been working on, and shifted around to rub Clint's back properly.

Ethan found them like that little more than an hour later, Clint asleep, slumped over the table, Steve next to him, one hand on his back rubbing gently, the other working on one of the drawings he'd started the night before.

"Good morning," Ethan said softly; he knew better than to try for stealth. "That'd be easier with two hands." His gaze flickered between Steve's face and the sketchpad, then over to Clint.

"He starts to wake up if I let go."

Ethan froze midstep, so fast that his forward motion forced him into taking a quick step or tip over.

"What?"

"He hasn't slept without someone touching him since before--"

"Before Loki." Steve stopped, both hands going still. "I don't know, I didn't know him before. Is it a problem?"

"Now? No." Ethan shook his head a little, long hair falling into his face and making him brush it out of his eyes. "Think about it. Last night we all spent in the rec room. Night before he spent part with Jim, part with Natasha, before that it was me. And you're sitting here rubbing his back just so he can sleep." His eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile that didn't reach his lips.

"Not sleeping, mom," Clint mumbles, fingers twitching. He blew a half-hearted raspberry across his wrist before straightening, then shook himself and looked around blearily.

"You keep telling yourself that." Ethan gave him that same crinkly-eyed not-smile before the coffee maker whistled insistently at him. "Does this thing have a name?"

"Nuh-uh." Clint startled when the coffee maker beeped, indignant and shrill. "Wha--?"

"I think it's trying to say it has a name, Clint," Steve managed through his laughter.

"JARVIS? Do you know--" Clint asked.

"I believe it liked Siege, sir."

"Oh god. Kill me now." Clint groaned and let his head thump--gently--back on the table.

"No, no one's killing anyone--except maybe a Captain Fuller--because we, that would be you and me and your friend Jim still sacked out in the rec room, are going on a field trip today," Tony said cheerfully, heading for the coffee until Ethan held up a hand.

"Just started the coffee, sorry." Behind him, the coffee maker beeped and puffed a cloud of steam.

"Bah. What's this I hear about the coffee maker having a name?"

"I called it the Siege Engine of Doom when Jim and I were setting up Spoon Wars," Clint said dejectedly.

"Siege Engine of Doom. Huh." Tony glanced at the coffee maker, which beeped at him, as if showing off the half-pot of coffee in the pot.

"Yeah. Huh. Field trip?"

"Taking you and Jim to LA. Jim wants to rub Fuller's face in it. And I promised him I'd get you to wear your Avengers gear."

"That's easy enough." A slow, manic smile spread across Clint's lips.

"Don't do anything stupid," Steve warned.

"Like what? I'm not planning on provoking anything, it's not my fault the guy's an ass."

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this." It was not a question, and Steve stared at Clint until Clint just shrugged and put his head back down.

"Okay, who showed you Star Wars?" Tony glared, sounding absolutely scandalized. "I can't believe someone showed you Star Wars. We're supposed to do that whole movie marathon thing as a team, damnit. Oh well." He muttered something under his breath, then took the mug of coffee Ethan offered him. 

"I haven't seen Star Wars, Tony. Relax." Steve smiled wryly.

"Oh. JARVIS, make a note, team movie night, Star Wars marathon, when we get back from LA."

"Noted, sir."

"Good. By the way. Clint, Pepper talked to Sanborn yesterday, you can meet up with him and/or Eldridge sometime later. Much later if need be, no pressure. Bruce and I are going to take a look and see what we can do about Eldridge's leg. The plane's leaving at nine, Jim's friends Chris and Deke are meeting us for lunch, and we have an appointment this afternoon at LA SWAT headquarters. So grab your coffee and get packing."

"Slave driver." But Clint's words were fond beneath the gravelly weariness, and he heaved himself to his feet, took the coffee Ethan held out for him, and shuffled down the hall.

Steve waited for a door to shut behind Clint before asking, "JARVIS? Are Phil and Natasha awake?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

"Coffee?" Ethan glanced at him as he got to his feet, and he shook his head, scooping up his sketchpad and pencil.

"Nah. I'll grab some later, maybe. I don't get anything out of it but the taste, anyways." He gave a half-hearted salute in thanks, trying not to see the twin expressions of surprised horror, and took the elevator down to the infirmary level.

"Come in," Phil called softly at his knock.

"Hey."

Natasha nodded a good morning to him from her chair, one knee bumping the edge of the bed.

"What brings you down here? Is Clint--" Phil cut himself off, a crease forming between his eyes.

"Clint's fine. I actually. I don't know if it's my place to say this, but I need to ask a favor, and you need some context for that, so." Steve shifted his grip on the sketchpad, holding it in both hands in front of him. "He and Ethan..."

Natasha looked up at him from the corner of her eyes, stopping him with two raised fingers. "Clint's submissive for the right person. We guessed Ethan would be the right person." Her tone was so coldly emotionless that Steve wasn't sure how to respond.

"I--yeah. Ethan fed Clint dinner last night. We--had a front row seat, so to speak. And--"

"It makes you uncomfortable to see him like that." Phil sounded so tired, so--

"No. It was--I'm talking to two of Clint's lovers about his _other_ lover, damnit. It's not exactly something I've done a lot of, okay?" He couldn't help the blush that burned along his ears, up from the collar of his shirt. "I have no problems with either of you or Ethan or Clint being in a relationship. Even if I did I have no room to throw stones. But. That's not what I'm here for." He stopped, looking down at the sketchbook, at the cover, worn at the edges and shiny in places. "This wasn't planned. But--it's good for Clint, I thought it'd be good for him to have something tangible and Tony kind of--took it over like he usually does, but it's not. You're both missing. And Thor, but I can't help that right now. He needs it, and."

"Steve," Phil stopped the mad rush of words, and Steve looked up to find his expression wondering and soft, amazed.

"What? You can't think--Phil, you forget, World War II was a few weeks ago for me." Steve let the grief and loss wash over him again for a moment, until Natasha dared rest a hand on his wrist in--something. "You make each other happy." He glanced away, then heaved a sigh and opened the sketchpad, careful to bypass the sketches of Ethan and Clint. "Here. The rest of us--I can't show you the drawings, you'll have to ask Clint. Or wait for him to show you. But--I thought it'd be helpful if--"

"--if we could do the same," Natasha finished for him, taking the sketchpad from numb fingers, then the pencil. Her gaze skimmed the paper, the lines of her face softening before she handed both over to Phil. "Here. I think you should go first."

Phil took them in his good hand, propping the sketchpad on his knees and meeting Steve's gaze for a long moment before reading the notes. Two fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, pencil tucked between thumb and forefinger. "You--" Phil stopped, turning aside and clearing his throat before shifting the pencil in his grip, graphite sliding smoothly across the paper as he wrote.

Trying to give them privacy, Steve turned aside, looking around the room; he'd seen enough of it last night, saw the extra blanket he'd spread over Natasha folded up on the table against the wall, the StarkPad Tony'd hacked SHIELD and left for Phil on the side table. If anyone would understand the need to be _useful_ it was Tony; it didn't surprise Steve at all that he'd facilitate Phil's at least handling paperwork, staying on top of things whether Fury or his doctors approved.

"Here," Phil said behind him, and then a soft curse in Russian from Natasha and more writing, a _"May I see?"_ and the surprised _"of course"_ in response, pencil landing cross-wise against the paper with a _snap_ as she held up the sketchpad for Phil to see.

"Done, Steve," Natasha said gently, and held out pad and pencil for him when he turned.

Steve couldn't meet her eyes, just took his sketchpad and pencil back and nodded. "Clint's going on a _'field trip'_ according to Tony. I'll bring this back down in a few minutes, and you can give it to him before he leaves. If that's all right?" And he finally looked up, met Phil's gaze.

"I'd appreciate that," Phil said. Natasha just nodded beside him, her hand on Phil's leg making a fist, drawing the sheet tight over his legs.

~~~

Anxiety and the urge to be gone, away from here, from Manhattan and the Tower _('and Phil,'_ his mind whispered) gave Clint the nervous energy that simple coffee wouldn't, didn't, and had Clint dancing in place for a few seconds before he could find the courage to knock on the doorjamb. Still the doorjamb; Phil left the door open when he was awake, an obvious invitation for visitors _('for you,'_ whispered again).

"Do not make me come out there and get you," drifted from inside, Natasha's voice as much exasperated as threatening.

"Hey." The smile reached his eyes, almost real, almost _there_ as he stepped through the door, not slinking like he had before. "I just--Tony's dragging me to LA with Jim for a day or two, I just wanted to--" He stopped, rocking back on his heels as he saw the manila envelope in Phil's lap, the expression of understanding and--his mind veered off, not wanting to see. "Phil?"

"Steve told us a little while ago. It's all right." And there it was again, that painful something Clint couldn't look at, and he dropped his gaze to the gold paper held in Phil's hands. The _I'll miss you,_ we'll _miss you_ remained unsaid, but Clint could hear it anyways.

The acceptance was enough to make Clint want to hug Phil--not that he _wouldn't._ Enough that the insidious _you need to get away from here, away from all these memories of Loki, if only for a little while_ remained a ghost, a weight unspoken and unidentified between them as Phil held out the envelope one handed.

Clint flinched a little as he closed what little distance remained between them, the sling too much a reminder, and looked down as he accepted, turned the envelope over. The flap had been sealed, rather than simply tucked in or fastened with the brass brad. "What is this?"

"Open it." Natasha watched him, face blank; Clint stared, trying not to react, not to let the _let me out of here_ show.

"Go on," Phil coaxed.

Clint gave a nonchalant shrug, or tried to, and hooked a finger in the corner of the flap, tearing carefully; papercuts were a _bitch,_ and he didn't need the irritation now. _Trivial things, just think of trivial things,_ ran through his head, just another avoidance, but the envelope was open. It was thicker than a few pieces of paper, stiff with cardboard or plastic, not heavy enough for metal.

Somehow the thick drawing paper and cardboard backing didn't surprise him; he'd been sleeping at the kitchen table long enough for Steve to have finished the drawings anyways. "Did--did you--" The words froze in his throat, sending an icy shiver down his spine.

"It was sealed when Steve gave it to me." Phil's words were unneeded reassurance. It wasn't as if Clint wouldn't show Phil, wouldn't share with Natasha, it was their generosity that let him have Ethan in the first place, but-- "I'd like to see, some time. If you're willing."

"I. Uh. Yeah, sure." The envelope fell to the mattress, forgotten as Clint slid the cardboard off the few sheets of paper, thumbs brushing the edges and he froze, stopped breathing at the sight of the note--notes--he should have been past this, should have--but.

_\--hurt because I ignored protocol to give Natasha time--_

"Clint?" Natasha's voice came from far away, but there was a hand on his shoulder, another on his hip, and he was being tugged onto the mattress, another hand pulling him in, pulling him down--

"It was my fault," he whispered, blind, vision edged in the memories of blue, memories of pride that wasn't real, wasn't _Phil's--_

"It was mine, Clint." 

Clint couldn't see him, couldn't move, had no strength left to fight or flee. No strength left to protest as slender fingers pried paper out of his hands. "No. I let him--"

"You let him trust you to win a war you'd lose _on purpose,_ Clint." That was Natasha, and they were tag-teaming him, Phil guiding his head to his good shoulder, Natasha pressed up against his back, lifting dead-weight legs to the bed.

"But that's not--" Clint's voice was small, bewildered. _\--not what I was thinking._ "I wanted, I wanted to do what he--"

"You did. You did what he asked of you. We trusted you to do what you had to for _all_ of us, and you did. You did so well, I'm so proud of you," Phil's voice fell into a hoarse whisper.

"If Loki had taken anyone else, the best we could have hoped for was Manhattan winding up a smoking crater." Natasha spoke against the back of his neck, breath hot and damp across his skin. "You need to stop this, _kosechka,_ you're blaming yourself for things you had no control over, and we're just thankful it was you."

_And not Fury,_ hung unsaid between them. It could have happened, could have, but--

"You have heart," Clint whispered, remembering, it was so clear, and--

"Yes. That's why he took you, and why you made him _fail,_ sweetheart," Phil murmured against his temple. "Your heart's so big, and we love you for it. And it hurts that you can't see that. I'd let Loki stab me a thousand times if it would stop you from thinking that any of this is your fault--"

"Phil--Phil, _please,"_ Clint whispered, clutching at the body beneath him, hating the thin barrier of the sheet that separated them. "Don't you know you're why I'm still here? That both of you--that you _kept_ me here, you always _have._ I--" He swallowed hard, against the too-fresh memories of Iraq, of Croatia, of _flatlined twice. Punctured lung, torn pericardium._ that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Clint--" Natasha sounded tear-choked, stricken at the thought--she'd _known_ , she _had_ to have known--

He reached back awkwardly, hand curving over her flank, her ass, until she caught his wrist, laced their fingers together. "I killed so many out there--"

"--fewer than you think--" and that was Phil, still fighting him, fighting the voices inside--

"You saved us all," Natasha whispered when Phil seemed unable to continue.

"If it hadn't been for me--" Clint started.

Phil wouldn't let him finish, starting it over with as much steel in his voice as love. "If it hadn't been for you--"

The rest was caught up in a kiss between them, the taste of mint and fear and _Phil_ so strong on Clint's lips, his tongue as he swept inside, tilting his head for a better angle, the knot of terror in his belly unraveling itself as Phil went from surprised passivity to eager participant, good hand cradling the back of Clint's skull.

Clint pushed as much as he dared, held the kiss until he ran out of air, too caught up to breathe through it, the hand stroking up and down his spine and thumb tracing circles in his palm distracting until he had to pull away, had to pant through an _"Enjoy the show?"_ thrown at Natasha, press forehead-to-forehead with Phil as Natasha hummed her agreement.

"No more blaming yourself, Clint," Phil rasped, shifting to rub noses with him to take the sting out of the order.

"Eventually. I can't just--turn it off. And one condition," Clint whispered back.

"I can deal with that. What's the condition?"

"Tasha gives Jim a chance."

"That's up to her." Warmth curled slow and content in Clint's belly at the amusement in Phil's voice, the press of soft lips on Clint's palm.

"That's my condition," and it was, it would make things so much easier, Jim was _safe,_ safe to lean on in ways Phil and Tasha and Ethan weren't, ways the rest of his _team_ weren't. But he couldn't have Natasha going after Jim--

\--and he didn't need to. "I'm sorry, Clint, I was--you were hurting so much and I can't even--" 

_\--protect you, Jim was a_ target--

But she only bent and pressed her forehead to his back, between his shoulderblades.

"I know, Tash, but I don't need to be protected from him." Clint tried to pull her closer, but there was no leverage, no way to keep from hurting Phil.

"He should have--"

"I was undercover and doing my job, Tash, you need to give him a chance. Please?" And all he could see was Phil, and all he could hear was (Phil's heartbeat) Natasha's fierce protest, her protection.

Clint only heard a hiccuping sound in answer, felt unexpected heat on his back. "I've missed you so much." Her whisper was ragged, raw pain and expected loss.

"Tash." Too much, it was too much, and clawing at him; he gave Phil an apologetic look and sat up straight, turning to pull Natasha against him. "I'm here, Tasha, I'm right here. We're going to be okay." Her hair caught at his lips, words lost between the strands. "You set me free and brought me back and we're going to be okay. It's just going to take some time," and he knew Phil understood, felt the press of arm and shoulder at his back, the lips against the nape of his neck, heard the _"JARVIS, tell Mr. Stark Clint will be late--"_ and the _"I already have, sir"_ that wouldn't let him finish.

"No one's losing anybody, Tash. We're right here, we're _us_ and we aren't going anywhere," and Clint let it be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian:  
> okashka - little wasp  
> kosechka - kitten  
> milyi - sweetie  
> lyubimy - my love  
> lublmaya moy - my sweetheart
> 
> Spoon Wars: Spoon Wars is a real game, if less complicated than the version Clint plays with Jim Street. My brother and I played it at IHOP and the occasional other restaurant when I was in high school; it's a little bit of a combination of RISK, Battleship and Stratego, and yes, it does use spoons as catapults and individual tubs of creamer as ammunition.
> 
> Yes, there is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it crossover with X-Men.


End file.
